Into the Darkness
by Aurora Nova
Summary: Marcus of Whiterun, called "Dragonborn", has defeated Alduin, and now looks forward to settling down to the quiet, peaceful life of the retired adventurer. But as he finds out, the life of an adventurer is seldom peaceful or quiet, as darker forces rise to threaten this newly-adopted world he has come to love. Rated "M" for adult language. Sequel to "Into the Maelstrom."
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

 _[Author's Note: If you have not read my previous work, "Into the Maelstrom", featuring my OCs Marcus and Tamsyn, you may feel a little lost in the beginning of this story. What you need to know is that Marcus and Tamsyn are from our world, and have been transported to the world of Skyrim, where Marcus – who has never played a video game in his life – discovers that he is the Dragonborn of legend. Along the way, Tamsyn – who_ has _played the game…a_ lot _– guides and advises him, but doesn't sit idly in the background as a side-kick. My first story dealt with Marcus discovering his talents and powers, and embracing his destiny. But that destiny is not yet fulfilled, as he soon learns. Other sinister forces are at work to endanger and threaten Marcus' adopted home. And he'll be damned if he'll sit by and let them do it. Now, on with the story!]_

* * *

"But _why?"_ demanded Alesan, with all the righteous indignation a teen-ager who feels put-upon could muster. _"Why_ can't I go out on jobs with the other Companions? Mister Farkas says I'm ready! And Lars has already gone out on a job with him."

Marcus of Whiterun, called 'Dragonborn', blew out a sigh and ran a hand through his dark brown hair. _It used to be blonde, in another time and place,_ he thought obliquely. He stared calmly at his younger son and tried to keep his frustration in check. 'Because I said so,' was never an acceptable excuse to a thirteen-year-old. That much he knew from previous experience.

"First of all," Marcus answered the boy, "Farkas – as nice as he is – probably isn't the best judge of how ready you are for a real job." He raised his hand to forestall another whining argument from the boy. "Secondly, Kodlak White-Mane hasn't given his approval yet, and until he does, the answer is 'no'. Farkas shouldn't have taken Lars with him in the first place, either. You know that. They both got into trouble, and Lars almost got killed—"

"But he didn't!" Alesan interrupted, his brown eyes flashing, and a ruddy heat blooming under his dark skin. "Mister Farkas was there—"

"And if he hadn't been," Marcus interrupted right back, "if it had been just you two out there on your own, one or both of you might have ended up dead!" He shuddered inwardly to think of it. "Now we'll hear no more talk of this," he said sternly. "When the Harbinger thinks you're ready, he'll send you out with Skjor or Aela or Vilkas – somebody with more sense in their head who can keep you alive until you can do it for yourself."

"But Pa—"

"I'm sorry, Alesan," Marcus said kindly, but firmly. "You've come a long way in the last three years, but you're still not ready to take on a Companion's full responsibilities."

"How would you know?" the boy muttered, stomping off. "You aren't a Companion." The front door of Breezehome slammed shut. Marcus sighed in frustration. Not for the first time that week he wished Tamsyn were here. She had a way with the boy that Marcus had yet to acquire.

"I see a lot of the person I used to be in him," was all she would say.

For the moment, Marcus was at home alone. Blaise and Sofie were at work, Lydia had the afternoon off, Lucia was out somewhere in town with Mila, and Tamsyn, his lovely wife of eighteen months, was down in Cyrodiil in the Imperial City meeting with members of the Synod.

It hadn't been this hard back in his old life, had it? Though some memories were as fresh as the day they had happened, many of the details were beginning to fade from Marcus' mind. He found he had to make a conscious effort to remember faces of people he had once known so well – some of them his own family. He had been born and had lived in a world of science and technology, where magic didn't exist and dragons were creatures of fantasy. The worst thing he had to worry about was whether he'd be able to make a mortgage payment or if the pain in his knees would keep him from being able to do his job. He had lived nearly sixty years in that world, and had left behind children and grandchildren he still thought about at least once a week.

But he wasn't in Gaea any longer; that life was over, and had been for nearly three years when he had first woken up in a wooden, horse-drawn cart on the way to a small town called Helgen in the Province of Skyrim. And his second life might have ended quickly when the town was attacked by an enormous black dragon known as Alduin, the World-Eater. In the ensuing chaos, Marcus had managed to escape with the help of a rebel soldier named Ralof, and the young woman who would go on to become the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, and the love of this life – Tamsyn.

Sometimes it didn't seem that long ago. He still woke up in the middle of the night from nightmares about his battles with draugr Deathlords, Dragon Priest liches and huge black dragons that wanted to devour his soul. On those nights he would ease out of the bed he shared with Tamsyn without waking her and head down the stairs to brew a strong pot of coffee.

Yes! Coffee! Wonderful Lydia had found a Khajiit caravaneer whom she had cajoled, bribed or threatened to bring her a steady supply of the roasted mountain bean known to the cat folk as _kaffre._ Once brewed, the _kaffre_ – or coffee, as he tended to continue to think of it – gave off a strong aroma not unlike a Starbucks kiosk in the local mall he used to frequent. He liked it that way, preferring to drink it black, while Tamsyn judiciously added milk and a touch of moon sugar to hers.

Nightmares notwithstanding, however, together he and Tamsyn _had_ managed, with a lot of help from some legendary heroes, to destroy Alduin once and for all, saving Tamriel – and indeed, all of Nirn in the process – from the Dragon God's destructive hunger.

Upon returning to a hero's welcome, Marcus and Tamsyn had been quietly married at the Temple of Mara in Riften in a simple ceremony attended only by family and a few close friends. The Jarl of Whiterun, Balgruuf the Greater, had been present, and upon returning to his capital City, hosted a lavish feast to celebrate not only their liberation from Alduin, but also the marriage of the Dragonborn.

Yes, he was Dragonborn; he had discovered that not too long after arriving in Skyrim. He could focus his vital essence into a _thu'um,_ a Shout in the language of the dragons, and could perform feats no one else could do. The Shouts allowed him to breathe fire, push his enemies down, disarm them or turn himself insubstantial. All around Skyrim were ancient ruins that held curving stone walls, where the Words of Power were carved, and Marcus had found a handful more in the last several months. He knew there had to be others out there somewhere, and he promised himself he would find them someday, but right now, he needed to figure out how to deal with a surly, disrespectful teen-ager without breaking the boy's spirit.

All four of his children had been orphans, adopted by Marcus as he had discovered them in his travels, learning the skills and powers he needed to face his destiny. Lucia – the first he had taken in – had been a beggar child of seven right here in Whiterun, and no one had done a thing to help her except to throw her a coin or two now and then. She had slept outside in all kinds of weather behind the Bannered Mare for almost a year before Marcus had taken her in. Blaise was a stable boy in Solitude who was treated as little more than free slave labor by the woman who ran the place. Sofie had endeavored to earn enough money for food by picking and selling flowers to the local alchemist and other merchants. Alesan had been abandoned in Dawnstar by sailors who dropped him and his ailing father off. When the father died, Alesan made a job for himself by running food and drink from one mine to the other in the town, back and forth all day, every day. In return he'd been allowed to sleep in the inn at night.

Blaise and Sofie weren't really any trouble at all. Even Lucia, though she was sometimes headstrong and querulous, wasn't really that difficult to understand. Alesan was his problem child. Every parent had one, it seemed. In his old life it had been his older daughter, Andrea, who had experimented with and gotten badly hooked on a veritable cocktail of recreational drugs. It had taken months for her to get completely clean, and she fought it every day of her life. Marcus wondered, not for the first time or the last, how she was doing now that he and her mother were no longer there. Lynne and he had both died in a vehicular crash. But while Lynne's soul had belonged to Gaea, and had gone on to the Heaven they both believed in, Marcus' soul had apparently belonged in Nirn, and it was here he had returned.

Not that he had too many regrets. If he hadn't been brought back here he would never have met Tamsyn, never have become the Dragonborn, or built this life for himself. But the question remained – Alesan – what was he going to do about the boy? His thoughts kept returning to that.

Because of his Redguard heritage and the life he had carved out for himself in Dawnstar after his biological father had died, Alesan was a boy of high energy. He needed to be _doing_ things. He hated inactivity, and chafed at not being able to prove himself. Marcus had thought becoming an honorary Blade and a junior member of the Companions would have been enough for the boy, but apparently Alesan craved more. As much as Marcus liked the Harbinger, he was beginning to think allowing his younger son to spend so much time there might not have been the smartest thing he'd ever done.

Tamsyn usually had a better handle on managing their younger son, but Tamsyn was gone right now and wouldn't be back for at least two more weeks. Marcus had already caught Alesan trying to sneak out of the house after everyone had gone to bed. He'd tried to keep an eye on the boy after that, but as he had often lamented in the past, _"I'm only one Dragonborn."_

Being a father again felt odd, if only because of the odd circumstances by which he had arrived in Skyrim. His soul had been placed into the first available receptacle, as it were – a twenty-something Imperial he'd met in Sovngarde named Octavian. His mind still retained all the life experiences of that previous life; all the maturity and wisdom he had earned, all the intuition and empathy in dealing with people that he had so painfully acquired in his previous life was still there. Perhaps it was this perspective and experience that made people question how he could know so much "for one so young."

Giving a sigh of exasperation, he glanced out the window into the street. Alesan had long since disappeared from sight. He could see by the length of the shadows outside that it was a couple hours past midday. Blaise and Sofie wouldn't be home until later, and it was doubtful Alesan would come home before suppertime, if then. He had been spending more and more time at Jorrvaskr these days, even taking meals there with the other Companions. Lucia, ever the snitching little sister, told her Papa that Alesan was even drinking mead now. That didn't bother Marcus as much as the fact that the boy seemed to be avoiding spending any time at home at all, and on more than one occasion had groused and grumbled when Marcus insist he do his chores before going "up the hill" again.

"Tilma takes care of this stuff at Jorrvaskr," he had muttered.

"Tilma doesn't live here, and I'm not your housekeeper," Marcus had said firmly. "Clean up your room as I told you to do."

Alesan had stomped his way up the stairs.

"There's no need to stomp about it, either," Marcus had warned him.

The Redguard boy had muttered something Marcus didn't catch, but he didn't ask him to repeat it.

 _Patience be my guide,_ Marcus prayed. He found himself doing that more and more often these days, especially with Tamsyn gone.

He wished she were here now, to talk to Alesan and get to the root of the boy's problem, but it would be at least a fortnight before she would return.

"I don't want to go," she complained when she told him about the trip. "The last thing I want to do is leave you with four kids to wrangle."

"I've been a father before, you know," he reminded her. "And these four were in my life before you, if you want to get technical about it."

"I know," Tamsyn said, "but I'm worried about Alesan, and about being gone for so long."

"Couldn't you get one of the other mages to take your place?" Marcus asked, also worried about their son, but was determined not to show it.

Tamsyn shook her head. "No," she replied. "Tolfdir is too old, and Enthir is off in Valenwood."

"What's he doing there?" Marcus asked, curious. He liked her second-in-command at the College, even if he did have some rather dubious and shady connections to members of the Thieves' Guild.

"I'd rather not say," Tamsyn said quietly. "The _official_ reason is to visit family. We'll leave it at that."

"Well, what about sending one of the others, then?" Marcus pressed, not really wanting her to make the trip.

Again, his wife shook her head. "The invitation was specifically issued to the Arch-Mage," she said. "And I'd be more than happy to put it off, except that I have a feeling if I don't go now, I may never get another chance."

Marcus was immediately alert. "You've Seen something?" It was well known throughout Skyrim that the Arch-Mage was a gifted Seer. At least, that was the _official_ explanation. In point of fact, Tamsyn had come from Gaea the same way Marcus had, except that while he had never heard of Skyrim before, Tamsyn had played many hours of that particular video game, and knew much of its lore. She had been an invaluable advisor to Marcus as he gained the skills he'd needed to defeat Alduin.

"No," she had replied. "Nothing specific. I just feel that something could happen soon to prevent me from going down to Cyrodiil and meeting with the Synod."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, Marcus!" she said in exasperation. "That's why I need to go down there, to find out what's going on! The Synod has never given a flying skeever's backside about the College before, except during that whole 'Eye of Magnus' affair, when they thought we were hoarding powerful magical artifacts. And now, to invite the Arch-Mage down to the Imperial City, to discuss the 'future of magic in Tamriel' and to determine 'what direction our studies should take'? It's a load of cow patties, and I mean to find out what they're up to. I just can't do it from here."

"You think the Thalmor are involved?" Marcus asked.

"Up to their slanted little eyeballs," Tamsyn grimaced. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried."

Marcus had wrestled with his conscience for several minutes. Tamsyn was stubborn enough to do exactly what she felt needed to be done, regardless whether he liked it or not. On the other hand, he didn't want to lose the woman he loved, if the Thalmor decided retaliation against the Dragonborn was in order. While he knew she was more than capable of looking after herself, he felt frustrated that he couldn't go with her, to watch her back.

"It makes me very uncomfortable that you have to walk into the lion's den alone like that," he said slowly. "I understand that you need to go, but I'll tell you right now I don't like it."

"What else can I do?" she asked in frustration. "If I refuse, I'll never get an opportunity like this again! They'll never send another invitation my way, assuming that I've rejected their kind offer."

Marcus considered this. Finally he asked, "What do you hope to gain from going that you'd miss out on if you didn't?"

Tamsyn thought for a moment. "It seems to me that those who protested loud and long that we at the College were hiding things might very well have something to hide themselves. Mirabelle Ervine told me, before she died, that she thought the Synod was trying to hoard powerful magical items, perhaps to consolidate power."

"What kind of power?"

Tamsyn shrugged. "Most likely the kind that would curry favor with the Elder Council in the Imperial City. The Emperor is the head guy, of course, but the day-to-day decisions are made by the Council. The Synod probably wants the Council to come to them in cases of all things magical."

Marcus frowned. "Why wouldn't they?"

"Because the Synod isn't the only team on the playing field down there," Tamsyn answered. "There's another faction known as the College of Whispers. They're quite a bit more secretive than the Synod, and I believe they are masters at summoning Daedra. That's not something that anyone who lives in the Imperial City would feel comfortable about, considering the whole Oblivion Crisis thing." Marcus knew about that; he'd read the book.

"I see," he nodded, understanding. "So the Synod gets a solid contract with the Council and they edge out this other College from all sorts of opportunities. I'm guessing maybe the same sorts of services you offer up at Winterhold?"

"Exactly," Tamsyn agreed. "In point of fact, when Savos Aren was Arch-Mage, the Synod and the College of Whispers both tried to get Winterhold to align ourselves with them exclusively, but Savos never took sides. He didn't want to get involved in politics. Winterhold was meant to be a refuge from all of that."

"Sounds like the Synod wants to revisit old topics with the new Arch-Mage, then," Marcus mused. "Maybe they believe you'll be more amenable to the idea."

"Fat chance!" Tamsyn snorted. "I'm firmly with Savos Aren on this one. I spoke with him about it while we were in Sovngarde, and he impressed upon me the importance of keeping Winterhold neutral. I'm not about to let him down."

"The Synod doesn't know that, though," Marcus pointed out.

"And I'm not going to tell them until I find out a few things _I_ need to know," Tamsyn smirked. "I received a heads-up about certain magical knowledge thought to be lost since the Oblivion Crisis, so it's doubly important that I accept the invitation."

Marcus didn't ask where she had received her 'heads-up' from. No one but he knew her father, through great machinations and manipulations, was the God of Magic himself, Julianos.

"I just wish I knew how much the Thalmor have infiltrated either group," Tamsyn went on. "That's the only thing that worries me."

"Don't go alone, then," he said.

"We can't _both_ be gone," Tamsyn pointed out. "Someone needs to stay here with the children. Lydia has been wonderful through the whole last year, especially when you were gone for so long, but we can't keep expecting her to raise the kids for us."

"I agree," Marcus nodded. "But I wasn't suggesting I go with you," he added, a faint smile on his lips at her indignant snort. "I was thinking of sending along either someone with a little more muscle, or a lot more skill with a blade…or maybe _two_ someones." It wasn't false modesty that prompted his comment. Marcus knew himself well enough to know there were others out there much better than he in specific areas. Fortunately, they were allies of his, and would willingly come when called.

So letters were sent to Markarth and to Dawnstar, and in a few short days Argis the Bulwark, Marcus' Housecarl from his home in the capital city of the Reach, and Cicero, his Sworn Dark Brother, arrived on their doorstep to accompany Tamsyn to the Imperial City.

"Oooo! This is so exciting!" Cicero cooed, dancing about. "Cicero will show pretty Tamsyn all the places he used to go to in the Imperial City! And we'll probably go through Bruma! Cicero lived in Bruma for a time, you know."

"Yes, I know, Cicero," Tamsyn smiled, delighted to see the former Dark Brotherhood assassin again.

"Do you think we will have time to visit Cheydinhall?" Cicero asked. "So many lovely jobs in Cheydinhall!" A shadow crossed his face then. "But oh…Cicero spent so many lonely…lonely years there. So many…"

"If we have time we'll go there and make some happier memories for you," Tamsyn promised, bringing a smile to the little Imperial madman's face once more. He jumped up and down and clapped his hands.

"Do I have to be 'Fenris' again?" Argis rumbled, smirking at Cicero's capering.

Tamsyn giggled. It was an old joke with them. "Not unless you want to be."

In spite of Marcus' assumption that Argis and Lydia might end up getting married, the two Housecarls eventually had called off their relationship soon after the Dragonborn and Tamsyn had returned from Sovngarde. While they had enjoyed each other's company, the spark just wasn't there, and the two remained friends. Less than a year later, Argis had approached Marcus and asked if he minded if his Housecarl invited "company" over to Vlindrel Hall. Marcus rarely spent time in his Markarth home and graciously gave permission.

The "company", he had found out later, was none other than Cicero, formerly of the Dark Brotherhood, and Sworn Brother to the Dragonborn. While it didn't entirely surprise him, knowing the attraction that had been between the two men, he insisted he didn't want to know the details, and promised to send word to Vlindrel Hall before dropping in unannounced.

Preparations were made, and the following day Tamsyn tearfully hugged the children good-bye before kissing Marcus and holding him tightly one last time.

"I won't tell you to take care of them," she whispered. "I know you will."

"You bet," he said. "Just watch over these two knuckleheads while you're down there, okay?"

"We'll be back before you know it," she promised. "Just don't get into too much trouble while I'm gone, Okay?"

"Hey," he chuckled. "I'm here at home with a bunch of kids. How much trouble can I get into?"

Cicero and Argis promised Marcus faithfully to protect Tamsyn, and the three left to board the carriage to Cyrodiil. That had been two weeks ago, and while Marcus knew this world moved slower than his old one, he was still nervous about not having heard from Tamsyn since she'd left.

"Papa, I'm home!"

"Don't slam the door!" he hissed as Lucia twirled into the house and hugged her papa. He caught the door just before it hit.

"Oops! Sorry!" Lucia whispered.

"The hinges work really well," he pointed out, wryly. "So you don't have to push so hard to get the door to close. Did Mila have to help her mother?"

Lucia nodded, grabbing an apple from the barrel under the stairs. At ten years old, nearing eleven, she was already going through a growth spurt, and Marcus noticed the hem of her dress – which had already been let down once – was exposing more of the girl's leg than current Skyrim society thought was proper. Her Imperial heritage was maturing her in other ways, too, he realized, if her developing curves were any indication. She would need new clothes soon.

"Uh huh," the girl's brown curls bobbed as she nodded her head, but a shadow crossed her face, darkening her gray eyes. "I wish she didn't have to work. I don't have anything to do."

"I can think of several things," Marcus offered. "Your chores are piling up."

"I didn't mean chores," Lucia whined.

"You know we all have to pull together here," Marcus said, a bit more sternly than was really necessary.

"Yes, Papa," Lucia said, suddenly contrite. "I'm sorry. I'll do them now." She headed up the stairs to feed and change the sawdust in the cage of her aging rabbit, Cotton, and to sweep the floors upstairs. "I had that dream again, Papa," she called over her shoulder.

"The one about the farm?" he asked.

"That's the one."

Marcus nodded quietly to himself. His younger daughter had been having recurring dreams about a farm, and trying to get to it, but it seemed she kept walking without getting closer. Marcus felt it probably had something to do with her aunt and uncle taking over the farm she lived on with her mother before the woman had died. When Lucia, at age six, found herself alone in the world, her relatives had swept in, taken over and thrown her out. Marcus still simmered about that. He'd had Proventus bring up every record of farmsteads in Whiterun Hold held by Imperials, but so far, visiting them with his daughter had brought no glint of recognition in her eyes. He wondered if the dreams were just suppressed memories, or if one of the Aedra was taking a hand in helping the child find her birthright.

"Was there anything different about this one?" he asked Lucia now.

The girl paused on the steps and turned halfway around. "I…don't think so…" she said slowly. "I remember Mama was in it, but I couldn't see her face. And then a man and a woman shooed me away and I began to cry." She gave a faint smile. "It was just a dream, right?"

"Or maybe a memory, sweetheart," Marcus said, coming to the steps as she came down once more and wrapped her arms about his waist. He gave her a squeeze and kissed the top of her head. "We'll find the place, don't you worry. The Jarl's Steward is still looking into the records for me."

"But we've gone to look at so many farms already, Papa," Lucia sighed. "None of them looked right. It's been so long, I don't know if I would remember it now if I saw it."

"I think you would, dear," he told her, lifting her chin and smiling. "I think the memory of that place was ingrained in you."

"What does that mean?"

He tussled her brown curls. "It means it's a part of you," he explained. "It's in there so deep, nothing can remove it."

"But what if my aunt and uncle are still there?" Lucia worried. "What if they don't want to give the farm back to me?"

"We will have the law on our side, if we can get the right information," Marcus told his daughter. "And if they won't give it back, I'll see that they pay you rent."

"You're the best papa!" Lucia smiled and hugged him tightly.

"I try," he smirked. "Will you be alright for a bit? I need to go up to Dragonsreach and speak with Jarl Balgruuf. "

"I'll be fine, Papa!" Lucia gave him the exaggerated sigh of a pre-teen who knows her papa is being over-protective, but she softened the blow with another hug and headed up the stairs to do her chores.

Marcus chuckled indulgently. Lucia might complain a bit, but the shy, hesitant child who craved affection was never far from the surface. He had made it a point to keep every promise he ever made to his children. Lucia had wanted to go back to Solitude, to perform for Master Viarmo at the Bards College. She especially had wanted to play him a song he had never heard before, and Marcus, with his sizable knowledge of music from another time and place, coupled with his own ability to play the guitar, had taught his daughter Mason Williams' _Classical Gas_. Lucia had practiced for weeks, perfecting her technique and ensuring she knew every note by heart. To say she had "wowed" the Master Bard was an understatement. A promise had been extracted from Marcus there and then to send Lucia to the College upon her fourteenth birthday.

"I'd ask to take her now, Dragonborn," Viarmo had said, "but she _is_ young, and I know how attached you humans are to your offspring. A few more years won't make a difference, if she plays the way she does now, and as I'm Altmer, I can afford to wait."

Blaise had asked for nothing more than to go sailing again, and Marcus had obliged by taking him to Riften; they had stayed at Honeyside and Marcus bought a small sailboat which they both took turns in plying the waters of Lake Honrich. They ate the fish they caught, explored every cove, and even hunted rabbits in the woods south of the lake, bringing Marcurio along with them just for company. Bears and wolves seemed to find them easy prey – at least the first few times they were attacked – but Blaise had been a smith's apprentice long enough that he knew how to wield nearly any kind of weapon. He was also a Breton, and like his adopted mother Tamsyn, he used every magic spell in his arsenal to the best effect. A burst from his hand created Oakflesh around him; another summoned a wolf familiar to harry their foe. Flames, frost and electricity were thrown from one hand while his ebony sword – which Marcus had brought back for him from Skuldafn Temple – struck out with precision. He cast Healing on himself whenever they broke through his defenses. Calm and self-assured, he never panicked, but fought grimly and quietly alongside the two older men until the last beast was dead.

"You'd make for a decent spell sword, Blaise," Marcurio told him, impressed, and Marcus beamed proudly.

Marcus introduced the lad to Balimund when he delivered another load of dragon bones and scales, and the boy spent several hours watching the old smith in reverence as he turned the bones into daggers and swords.

"These are commissioned," he told Marcus. "Thanks to you, my reputation's been spreading all over Skyrim."

"I kept watching him, Dad," Blaise said later, "but I still can't figure out how he did it. I guess I'm just not that good yet."

"Give yourself time," Marcus assured him. "You're still working with orichalcum and moonstone. You haven't even started learning how to work with malachite or ebony yet. Dragon bones and scales are a lot more difficult." His son nodded, and Marcus saw the spark of determination in his eyes.

Overall, it had been a very enjoyable trip.

Sofie's special time with her father involved a trip to Winterhold, to visit the College there. Tamsyn had gone along to touch base with the Master Wizard Tolfdir, and to see to any administration that needed her attention. Sofie had been impressed and intimidated at the same time.

"I don't know if I would be as good as they are at magic," she worried.

"You won't know unless you go there and find out," Marcus had told her.

Sofie nodded. "I suppose. But I think right now I need to finish my apprenticeship to Miss Arcadia. I wouldn't feel right about leaving her with no one to take my place." Tall for her age, Sofie's blue eyes were serious as she spoke. Her blonde hair seemed to get lighter the older she got; at fourteen it was now a pale blonde – a testament to her Nord heritage. Unlike most Nords, Sofie never minded magic, and had already mastered the novice-level spells Tamsyn had taught her, as well as a few higher-level Restoration and Alteration spells. "I'd like to know more about Restoration," she had told her father, "so perhaps when my apprenticeship is over I can go study that at Winterhold."

Now, as he jogged up the road to the Jarl's palace, Marcus thought back over the last year and a half with a mixture of satisfaction and frustration. After everything he had accomplished since first coming to Skyrim, why couldn't he figure out what was bothering a thirteen-year-old boy? He had been one himself, so very long ago, but it wasn't something you forgot about. If anything, he should have more empathy with his younger son, but he just couldn't seem to reach him these days. He shook his head slightly to banish the morose thoughts crowding in on him. Perhaps he'd have better luck finding out where Lucia had come from.

Up at Dragonsreach, the Jarl's Steward, Proventus Avenicci, greeted him cordially. "I still have no other information regarding your daughter's farm, Dragonborn," he announced. "I've gone through all the records of the past four years. It would help if she could remember her family's name – or at least, her father's."

"Are there any other farmsteads west of the city we haven't looked at?" Marcus asked.

"There are many that have been abandoned or destroyed," Proventus mused. "I haven't researched those."

Marcus stifled an exasperated sigh. _Why haven't you?_ "If you could find those for me, I'd appreciate it," he said evenly. The Steward assured him he would pull everything he had on the subject.

Jarl Balgruuf, the ruler of Whiterun Hold, saw Marcus leave his Steward and motioned him over.

"I'm done with addressing the numerous complaints I've been getting for today," the Jarl scowled. "Just once I'd like somebody to give me some _good_ news."

"It's a fine day outside," Marcus grinned, with the ease of long friendship. Jarl Balgruuf was the first person Marcus bonded to when he came to Skyrim. The Jarl sought out his advice and trusted him with a great deal of responsibility.

Balgruuf snorted. "I suppose that will have to do," he allowed with a smile. "What brings you to Dragonsreach today, Marcus?" It had taken the Jarl almost a year to stop calling him "Dragonborn" as his only name.

"Just touching base on a few things," Marcus replied, his eyes darting around the room. Balgruuf took the hint.

"Let's go somewhere where we can get comfortable to discuss them, then," the Jarl suggested. He led Marcus up the long stairs behind his throne and out onto the vast covered porch where they had once trapped a dragon together. A long dining table had been set up at the far end overlooking the White River Valley to the east. They seated themselves at one end and the Jarl called for wine, which was swiftly brought. When they were alone, Balgruuf asked eagerly, "So, what have you got to report to me?" He liked being kept in the loop, Marcus knew.

"I got a report from Hadvarr in Blackreach," Marcus said. "It's written in code, of course, so I had to translate it. Basically he says they've brought in a fresh group of recruits, and the veterans are being shuffled around to Mzulft and Bthardamz."

"That will keep the troops mixed up, for certain," Balgruuf nodded. "If they can see they're all brothers and sisters against a common cause, it will ease the tensions in this pretense of a Civil War we have to maintain."

That had been Balgruuf's idea: to continue to create "skirmishes" and send reports of "losses" to General Tullius which were then carefully spoon-fed to the Thalmor Ambassador, Ramallion z'ha Cirdain. By pre-arrangement, Tullius would know the report to be a fabrication if Balgruuf used a specific seal.

"I also received word from Madanach in the Reach," Balgruuf continued now. "It seems the problem with the Afflicted there at Bthardamz has been resolved. The Hag—I mean, the Matriarchs – have found a cure which pleased everyone except the apostate priest, Orchendor. It seems he felt their curse was ordained by the Daedric Prince Peryite, and had to be spread all across Skyrim."

"I'm going to assume Madanach dealt with him?" Marcus asked.

"He did," Balgruuf replied. "I didn't ask for details. I'm not sure I want to know them. But at least the matter has been taken care of, and they can concentrate on the training exercises that had to be put on hold until the matter was resolved."

Marcus nodded. It appeared the priest was the only one who seemed to think the plague was necessary. Its sufferers, however, only wanted to be cured, feeling they had been misled. That Madanach, the so-called "Reach King", had dealt with it personally was a testament to the man's integrity when he agreed to support their plan to wipe out the Aldmeri Dominion. "They're working on magical research out there, aren't they?" he said now.

"Yes," Balgruuf agreed. "I'm not fond of it myself – no offense to your lovely wife, of course – but I do see the need for it, if we're to be successful. Have you heard from Ulfric at all? It's not likely he would report to me."

"He'd better," Marcus growled. "I put you in charge of general operations for the very reason that you're the fairest man I know. You can see both sides of this conflict, between Stormcloaks and Imperials, and you have a gift for getting both sides to talk, rather than fight."

Balgruuf shifted uncomfortably under the praise. "It's not a position I like to be in, Marcus," he said. "But you've entrusted it to me, and I won't let you down. I know you need to be free to trouble-shoot wherever you're needed. I'll send an inquiry to Ulfric then. I don't like the man on a personal level, but this isn't personal."

"Better send it to Solitude as well as Windhelm," Marcus advised. "He's as likely to be one place as the other."

At that Balgruuf grinned. "Yes, he seems to be completely smitten with Elisif – and at his age, too! I never would have believed it if you had told me two years ago."

"Well, Tamsyn did say this was something that had to happen if we're to succeed," Marcus pointed out. "The last time I spoke with Ulfric he admitted his growing fondness for her. And Elisif told Tamsyn directly that she would not be adverse to a 'marriage of convenience' if it would help the cause. Tamsyn told me later Elisif seemed a bit _too_ eager for that eventuality." Marcus allowed a grin. "Sure would be nice to have a High King _and_ a High Queen for Skyrim, ruling jointly. Wouldn't you agree?"

"It would go a long way towards healing the hurt across the land," Balgruuf nodded. "Where is your wife now, Marcus? Up at Winterhold?" He knew that her duties as Arch-Mage sometimes required her to be there, rather than Whiterun, where she spent most of her time.

"No, she had to go to Cyrodiil on business," Marcus replied, missing her terribly. "She should be back in a week or so."

"Hmmm," Balgruuf rumbled. "I won't ask why, then. Better if I don't know, I'm thinking."

Marcus could hardly argue that point. It was one of the reasons he liked Balgruuf so much. The man knew when to ask questions and when not to. "She told me she received word from J'Zargo a few weeks ago. Research continues on the new spells she shared with his team, and they're making progress. They're continuing to enchant armor and weapons as quickly as they're made, too."

"Didn't I read they had some problems with the Falmer down there?" the Jarl asked.

Marcus shrugged. "Only minor trouble," he replied. "With each new group of trainees they keep expanding their hold on the territory in Blackreach. The Dwemer machines are actually more of a problem than the Falmer. But they've managed to deal with that, as well, and have used the destroyed machinery as resource material."

Balgruuf smirked. "All except the ones Calcelmo wants to keep, I understand. He's in a constant state of dither, I hear, and cringes every time they destroy another automaton."

"That's the price you pay for freedom," Marcus shrugged. He hadn't been completely sure at first if including Calcelmo had been such a brilliant idea. The man was an Altmer, after all, and no one knew exactly where his loyalties – or that of his nephew, Aicantar – truly lay.

However, it soon became apparent that no one knew more about the Dwemer than the aging scholar, and that immersion in everything dwarven was his only true interest; Dwemer history, culture and creations were his specialty. If anyone could figure out how to reactivate and use the machines left behind by the dwarves, it would be Calcelmo, and when cautiously approached, he immediately petitioned interim Jarl Nepos for permission to be released from his duties as court mage to "take a sabbatical for the purposes of field work." Jarl Nepos, knowing exactly what was at stake, made a show of gravely considering the proposal in the presence of the Thalmor Justiciar Ondolemar before "reluctantly" granting permission.

It left him without a court mage, however, and he quickly filled the position with an older Reachwoman who was extremely well-versed in Conjuration, Alteration and Destruction magics. Her skill with Illusion was also beyond expert; Ondolemar never suspected the middle-aged Esmerelda was actually a Hagraven Matriarch.

That Nepos had replace Igmund as Jarl had not gone down without several protests on the part of other Jarls across Skyrim, but Balgruuf and Ulfric's influence was not to be underestimated. Eventually they convinced the protestors that this was only right and fair, considering how far Igmund had let things slip in his Hold, and that it stood as a warning to the rest of them to be more vigilant in the governance of their lands and people.

Igmund, his uncle and Steward Raerek, and his Housecarl Faleen, had been given an opportunity to prove their loyalty to the Empire and to Skyrim by allowing themselves to be relocated to Blackreach, to oversee some of the day-to-day operations there. While some viewed it as a reward rather than a punishment, Marcus personally felt that giving someone a second chance was never a bad thing.

"What about the dragons?" the Jarl asked him now. "Have you managed to contact any of them?"

"Only a few," Marcus admitted, "and with only mixed results. Paarthurnax and Odahviing gave me a few names, but only a handful seemed inclined to follow me."

Balgruuf lifted an eyebrow. "And the others?"

Marcus compressed his lips sternly. "I sent their bones to Balimund," he said shortly. He refrained from telling his Jarl that he had commissioned another suit of armor from the Riften smith, hoping to make it a gift to the lord of Whiterun on his next birthday.

The Jarl of Whiterun grinned. "Well, that will spread the word among them that you mean business!"

"The Blades called upon me a few times, too," Marcus informed him. "Unnamed dragons, mostly. But they also wanted me to find out if Alduin had managed to raise some of the other named dragons on their list."

"What did you find out?"

"Nearly all the cairns were empty," Marcus admitted. "Somewhere out there are a few dozen really powerful dragons."

Balgruuf considered this. "You could call them, though, right? Make them come to you as you did that Odahviing."

Marcus nodded. "I could. In fact, I did try, but I think they may have been too far away, or they didn't consider me enough of a threat to bother with. In any case, they didn't show."

"That's a problem, then," Balgruuf rumbled, concerned. "If we still have to be concerned about dragon attacks while we're trying—"

"I'll find them," Marcus promised. "They'll either join us or end up like Alduin."

They spoke for a while longer about minor details in their plans before the conversation drifted to other topics.

"I see you've made a few more improvements to Breezehome," Balgruuf commented.

It wasn't that difficult to notice. As his family grew, Marcus realized that at some point Sofie and Blaise would need rooms of their own, though that didn't seem to be the standard in this Viking-like culture. Most families had two and three people in one common sleeping room, sometimes two to a bed. Coming from a culture that like its privacy, Marcus felt that courtesy should be extended to his family, though none had complained. Nevertheless, he had sacrificed his private space in the basement level to turn it into two additional bedrooms for his two older children.

"I kind of had to," Marcus grinned ruefully. "I'm just about at maximum capacity with Breezehome."

"Maybe it's time for a bigger house," Balgruuf suggested with a smirk. "Either that, or stop taking in every stray child you meet."

Marcus chuckled. "Yeah, Lydia's already warned me about that. I think she'd threaten to give notice if I did. There's also the eventuality that Tamsyn and I will have children of our own."

"I see," Balgruuf coughed, politely. "You haven't yet…I mean…"

Marcus hesitated. "We've…consummated the marriage," he admitted quietly. "But we both agree it's not time yet to start a family of our own. We're…taking precautions against it right now." To no one but Balgruuf would he have admitted this.

"Ah, well," Balgruuf said hastily. "If it were any other man but you, Marcus, I would question his sanity first and his virility second. But you and Tamsyn aren't really ordinary people. You are Dragonborn, and she is the Arch-Mage. Both of you are deeply involved in this…little venture of ours. But if you're interested, I may have some land in my Hold you could purchase, where you could build a house."

"That's a generous offer, Balgruuf, thank you," Marcus said sincerely. "But I'll have to talk with Tamsyn about it."

"Why?" Balgruuf asked, genuinely confused. "Aren't you the head of your household? You make the decisions, and everyone lives with them."

Marcus shook his head. "If I want to stay married to the most beautiful woman in my world, and one of the most powerful in Skyrim, I'll wait until I talk with Tamsyn," he chuckled. "When a decision needs to be made that affects my family, we make them together. Blaise and Sofie are still in their apprenticeships. I won't take them away from that."

"Most apprentices live with their masters," Balgruuf pointed out.

"Well, then my children are luckier than most," Marcus insisted. "They get to come home at the end of their work day."

Jarl Balgruuf shook his head, not understanding. "You are a strange man, Marcus Dragonborn."

"That's what keeps my enemies off balance," Marcus grinned.

The shadows were lengthening by the time he made his way back down the hill to return home. He stopped at the Bannered Mare and purchased enough food to feed his family. He knew he was being lazy, but he genuinely hated cooking. This way, he reasoned, he kept the economy flowing, the food was guaranteed to be good, and he didn't have to slave away all afternoon over a hot cookpot. At Tamsyn's suggested, an oven had been installed at the back of the dining area, but he had no idea how to make it work. That was Tamsyn and Lydia's department.

He saw Lydia in one corner, talking quietly with Severio Pelagia and Olfina Grey-Mane, Eorlund's granddaughter. He gave a rueful shrug as she smirked over the basket of food he was carrying out. She'd probably give him hell for it later, and he didn't care. She was the only reason he hadn't starved to death those first few months after he came to Skyrim, and she knew it.

As he entered Breezehome he saw Lucia playing with her rabbit Cotton. She had brought the bunny home very soon after Marcus and Tamsyn had returned from Sovngarde, and before they'd gotten married. She had begged to keep it as a pet, and Marcus saw no reason not to allow it, "As long as you take care of it," he told her sternly. "Keep him fed, watered and comfortable, and clean up after him." Lucia had been very good about that, with only an occasional lapse.

Sofie and Blaise arrived home not long after, and Blaise helped him set out the food while Sofie and Lucia set the table.

"Where's Alesan?" Marcus asked.

"Not home yet, Dad," Blaise answered. "I haven't seen him since this morning, either."

"Nor have I," Sofie added. Her blue eyes clouded with worry. "He's been spending an awful lot of time at Jorrvaskr, hasn't he?"

"Practically from the time he gets up," Blaise nodded. "Is he alright, Dad? He seems….I don't know, angry about something."

"Has he said anything to any of you?" Marcus asked, keeping his tone neutral.

"Not to me," Sofie sighed. "He barely talks to me anymore."

"All he says to me is 'Go away, Lucia!', or 'Go home, Lucia,'" the little girl said. "He used to want to play tag or practice our martial arts. Now, he's just grouchy all the time."

"I'll talk to him when he gets home," Marcus promised them. "Let's sit down and eat."

"But Alesan's not here," Lucia protested. Even though he'd been hurtful to her, he was still her brother and she was worried about him.

"Alesan knows what time supper is around here," Marcus said firmly. "If he misses it, he can go hungry. I'm sure one of you will sneak something to him later."

Three guilty faces turned their attention towards their plates.

After supper, Sofie and Lucia cleared away and washed the dishes while Blaise brought in more wood for the fireplace and stoked it for the evening. Marcus lit the oil lamps around the room and pretended he wasn't watching the street each time he passed the windows. As it grew later and later, he became more worried about Alesan's absence. Finally, after Lydia had returned, he made his way down to Jorrvaskr to retrieve his wayward son.

At first the boy put up an argument about going home. "This is my home now," he declared, seated between Skjor and Aela. The two older Companions, embarrassed, wouldn't meet his eyes.

Marcus kept a rein on his temper. "Is that what the Harbinger says?" Marcus asked, keeping his voice calm. "Has Kodlak White-Mane declared you to be a full member of the Companions?"

Alesan opened his mouth to answer, but shut it after Aela gave him a nudge with her elbow.

"Go on home for now, son," Skjor said. "There will be time soon enough when you can stay here for good."

"But I want to stay now!" Alesan protested.

"You do us no honor by disrespecting your father, Alesan," Aela said.

"He's not—" Alesan began, but Kodlak, entering the room, cut him off.

"Alesan!" he said sharply. "Do not speak the words you know will cut deeper than a knife. We have not trained you here to be an ungrateful whelp. I had thought better of you than that."

Immediately ashamed, Alesan's dark skin took on a ruddy hue. "I'm sorry, Harbinger."

"It is your father to whom you owe the apology, son," Kodlak said quietly.

"I'm sorry, Pa," the boy mumbled. He stood quickly and left Jorrvaskr without looking at anyone, Marcus included.

"I offer my apologies, as well, Dragonborn," the Harbinger said. "I had not realized that his fondness for our company would lead to rebellion against your authority."

"He's a teen-ager," Marcus replied, as if that explained it. He made an effort to shrug off the hurt. "We've all been through it. At least I know he's safe here, and not likely to come to harm." He completely missed the look that passed between Skjor and Aela. "My thanks once again for taking him under your wing, Harbinger."

He bowed and left, trotting to catch up to his son.

"Alesan, sit down a minute, please," he called, sitting on a bench under the Gildergreen and patting the seat next to him.

"Do I have to?"

"No," Marcus said equably. "You can stand if you like. But we're still going to talk."

"Why are you being so mean to me?" Alesan demanded. "I was with my friends! I was having fun! Why did you have to spoil it all by treating me like a child?"

"Because you are not yet fully grown," Marcus said, exasperated, "and until you are, I will watch over and protect you. That's my job as your father."

"You're not my real father!"

 _Easy, Marcus,_ he told himself. _He's upset, so he's trying to lash out with whatever weapons he has._

"No, I'm not," Marcus agreed calmly. "But I love you as much as if you were my own."

That might have worked on Lucia, or Sofie, or even Blaise, but Alesan steeled himself against it.

"That doesn't give you the right to tell me what I can do with my life!" he challenged. "I want to be a Companion. I'm ready to be one. The only thing that's keeping me from doing it is you!"

"And the Harbinger," Marcus pointed out. "He doesn't think you're ready either."

"I _am_ ready!" Alesan screamed, causing several heads to turn in their direction. _So much for having a quiet talk with my boy,_ Marcus mused ruefully.

"You're not showing that you are," Marcus said calmly. "You're being surly and stubborn, and you're taking your aggression out on the rest of us. That's selfish and immature, and certainly not traits that a true Companion would have."

"How would _you_ know?" Alesan sneered. "You aren't a Companion!"

"Would it make you any happier if I became one?" Marcus asked. It had always been in the back of his mind, since he first learned of the organization. But other things had gotten in the way, and he had never had the luxury of exploring the possibilities. If it helped Alesan, however, he'd consider it.

But his son's face grew darker, if that was possible. "No!" he said forcefully. "Do you think I _want_ you peering over my shoulder every chance you get? That I _want_ you showing everyone how great the Dragonborn is, compared to his _adopted_ son? A kid he picked up in his travels and felt sorry for?"

 _Ouch._ That had hurt.

"I think I understand now," Marcus answered slowly, sadness coloring his voice.

"Do you?" Alesan muttered, crossing his arms and flouncing down onto the bench. "Everyone thinks you're so great because you killed Alduin, and you know how to Shout, and you've done all these amazing things. How's a kid supposed to live up to that?"

"By being you," Marcus replied. "Alesan, I can't promise you that no one will ever compare you to me. But you aren't me, and that's the truth of the matter. You're you. And you will get the chance to prove what you can do in this world. Just not quite yet."

"Not ever," the boy grumbled. "If you keep holding me back."

"If I do, it's because I know you'll get stronger, faster, better, if you just allow yourself some time. You won't be considered an adult by Skyrim's standards until you're sixteen, you know that. Hell, even Blaise is still considered a child, and he's not upset about that."

"Blaise isn't going to be a warrior," Alesan sneered. "All he'll ever be is a smith."

Marcus frowned. "Say that the next time your blade gets dull or your armor needs repair," he said sternly. "If you don't know how to fix them when they're broken, you'd better damn well know a good smith who can do it for you, _especially_ if your weapons and armor are enchanted!" He himself had still never learned how to repair magical armor. He'd only barely managed to keep Dragonbane and Alduin's Bane in sharp order, and only because Ghorza gra-Bagol in Markarth had helped him.

"My point is," he continued, "is that while you are still considered a child by the Jarl, you are under my protection."

"Can we go home now?" Alesan whined.

"In a minute," Marcus intoned. "I want to make sure you understand this. I also want you to understand that whatever you feel about living with me, your mother, brother and sisters, we still love you and we always will. You've treated your siblings rather shabbily recently, and I don't think the Harbinger would be pleased to know that. If a Companion upholds honor above all, you aren't being very honorable."

"Fine," Alesan grumbled. "I won't say anything bad to them. Can we go now?"

Realizing he wasn't going to get the resolution he'd hoped for this time, Marcus relented. "Alright. Let's go. You've missed supper, though—"

"I ate already."

"And you neglected your chores again."

There was a pause, then reluctantly, Alesan said, "I'll do them now."

And he did. As soon as they walked in, Alesan headed upstairs and cleaned and swept the room he still shared with Blaise, until such time as the downstairs rooms were ready to be inhabited.

Breezehome settled down into an uneasy evening. The children retired to bed and Lydia retreated downstairs to her private quarters. Marcus, unable to sleep, picked a book from his shelf and sat near the fire.

His thoughts were a whirl of conflicting emotions, however, and he realized he'd read the same paragraph three times and still hadn't made sense of it. He grimaced, set the book aside, and stared broodingly into the flames of the fireplace.

Worry was the most pressing thing on his mind. Inevitably there would come more and more frequent conflicts with his younger son, spilling over into the rest of the family and upsetting everyone. For the first time he began to doubt his parenting abilities. Had it ever been this hard to reach a child before?

Yes. Andrea was so far into herself it took nearly a year to get her free and clean of the numerous drugs she'd been taking. It took longer to clear away the debt she had racked up, which she couldn't pay while she spent time in a women's prison for theft and larceny, which supported her habit. Giving up on her had never been an option, and only "tough love" had seen them through it. He didn't think Alesan was at the point where he needed "tough love". He'd thought the boy only needed to be shown that people loved him and cared about him, and for a while, that was all that was needed. After the death of Alduin, and Marcus' marriage to Tamsyn, they had all settled down in Whiterun and lived normal, comfortable lives.

Perhaps not quite as comfortable as Marcus had believed, since Alesan still felt the need to "prove" himself to others. No one had said anything, but in the boy's mind he felt he would always be compared to his famous father, and it was a hard thing for a child like Alesan to accept.

A commotion rang out in the streets, and Marcus sat up suddenly, listening. Voices were shouting, people were screaming, and there was a hollow, coughing sound, like a dog barking in a cave.

He rose quickly and ran to the window, looking out, up and down the street.

Near the forge he saw Adrianne fighting with a group of people. Guards were helping her, but the people they fought had huge, mastiff-like dogs, black as night with glowing red eyes.

Vampires! They were here again, in Whiterun!

"Not this time, you don't!" he growled, as Lydia came up the stairs.

"My Thane, what—"

"Stay inside!" he ordered her. "Keep the children safe!"

"Yes, my Thane!" She drew her sword and positioned herself in the center of the room, in front of the stairs.

Marcus didn't look back, but grabbed Alduin's Bane from the rack by the front door, and headed out into the street.

"Never should've come here!" one of the guards barked as he fought off one of the mongrel hounds.

Marcus saw Adrianne go down and cold fear gripped him.

"You sonofabitch!" he cried. "I'm going to kill you a second time!"

Red eyes glittered Marcus' way as the Master Vampire turned toward this new threat. Extending one hand, he struck Marcus with a beam of red light, and Marcus felt his life force being pulled away from him.

"Gah!" he cried. _Two could play at that game,_ he thought.

" _KRII LUN AUS!"_ He Shouted, narrowing the focus of the _thu'um_ to hit only the Master Vampire. The undead staggered, and the beam of draining magic snuffed out as he attempted to recover from the debilitating effects of the Marked for Death Shout. Marcus didn't give him the chance. He drew an ebony dagger he had picked up in a barrow somewhere to keep in his off-hand as he slipped easily into the two-handed style that was now so familiar to him. Dimly, he recognized that Sigurd and Amren were battling on the other side of the road, but he couldn't take the time to see how they were doing.

Lashing out at him, the Master Vampire scraped his claws across the front of Marcus' tunic, and with a jolt of fear, Marcus realized he'd grown so comfortable in recent months he had neglected to wear his armor on a regular basis.

" _They say if a vampire so much as scratches you, you'll turn into one."_

How many times had he heard the guards gossiping about that? Well, he'd just have to make sure they didn't lay a finger on him. The tingle in his throat told him it was too soon to Shout again, so Marcus backed away, drawing the vampire away from the smithy. He lunged with the dragon bone sword and was pleased to see it trace a line of fire across the vampire's midsection. Screeching in outrage, the undead extended his hand again to weaken Marcus once more. Avoiding the ray of hellish light that streamed toward him, Marcus stepped forward to grab the arm and twist it over his head, intending to flip the vampire onto his back so he could deliver the final blow. That was a big mistake. The vampire was stronger than he anticipated, and instead of having his own weight used against him, he used the momentum of the flip to twist in mid-air and land behind Marcus, far too close for comfort.

The back of Marcus' neck rippled with gooseflesh as the Master Vampire twisted the Dragonborn's arm behind him and brought his neck close enough for the fangs to sink in. Reflexively, Marcus bashed his head backward, hearing the vampire's septum shatter, and the night creature howled in pain, relaxing his grip on his victim.

Twisting away, Marcus lashed out behind him with Alduin's Bane, and the flaming sword cut a deep gash in the vampire's side. At once, the undead disappeared from view, and Marcus peered around furiously to try to find the tell-tale warping of air that would indicate where the vampire had gone, but in the gloom of night he could see nothing.

By now, Amren and Sigurd had killed one of the thralls and a death hound, and were closing in on the other lesser vampire that had accompanied her lord. Adrianne lay unmoving in front of her shop, but Marcus couldn't take the time to check on her, with the Master Vampire still around somewhere.

Something shifted at the edge of his vision to his right, near the guard house, and without thinking, the tightness in his throat now eased, Marcus roared out his Unrelenting Force. A dark shape flew several feet into the air and slammed against the stone wall of the building. Leaping forward, Marcus called forth another, seldom-used power, and channeled what little magicka he possessed into a stream of flames at the stunned form of the Master Vampire.

Shrieking, the vampire rushed at him one last time, only to run himself up on the blade made of dragon bone in Marcus' other hand. The cry was aborted and the vampire gasped, shuddered and slumped to the ground. It took a full minute for the light to go out of his eyes, but Marcus didn't wait that long. Barking at the guards to "watch him!" he rushed to Adrianne's side, where Amren and Sigurd already knelt.

"It looks bad, Marcus," Amren worried. Blood dripped down his face from a gash in his forehead, and was smeared where he had wiped it out of his eyes. The chainmail at the sides of his cuirass were separated, and blood oozed between the links.

Adrianne's wounds were severe, and she had already lost a lot of blood. One leg had been savaged by one of the death hounds, and blood pumped freely from slashes on both arms and her chest. Claw marks raked down her face, narrowly missing her right eye.

"She needs a healer right away," Sigurd agreed. "I'll go get Danica Pure-Spring!" He sprang to his feet and took off at a dead run, only limping slightly from the wound to his left leg.

"Do you know any healing magic, Marcus?" Amren asked hopefully.

Marcus shook his head helplessly. "I only know the one Tamsyn taught me," he admitted, "but I don't have a lot of magicka. I've just never really put that much practice into it. I'm not even sure it will help. I've only ever used it on myself, not on others."

Amren frowned. "Anything you can do might help until Priestess Danica can get here," he said urgently.

"I'll try," Marcus said. He closed his eyes and concentrated on casting the healing magic outward, rather than channeling it inward. A faint, pinkish-gold energy emerged, and he directed it towards Adrianne, but while the blood flow slowed, he knew it wasn't enough.

Footsteps rushed closer, and the two men looked up to see Ulfberth War-Bear approach. Behind him, an Orc in heavy armor hovered in the background.

"Adrianne!" Ulfberth cried, crashing to his knees next to her. "My gods, Adrianne! Don't die! Please don't die!"

"Sigurd's gone for the healer, Ulfberth," Amren told him as Marcus sent another burst of healing energy into the Imperial smith.

"That will take too long," Ulfberth said frantically. "I'll take her myself!" He made a move to pick her up, but the Dragonborn forestalled him.

"She can't be moved, Ulfberth," Marcus said firmly. "I'm doing my best to keep her alive right now as it is. Move her, and you'll only make things worse."

"Damned vampires!" Ulfberth roared. "I'll kill every last one of them! Oh, Adrianne!"

"Amren, pull him back," Marcus said shortly. "I need room to work." He shot another burst of magic, but deep inside felt he was fighting a losing battle. If Sigurd didn't return with Danica soon…

"Here, Papa, let me."

Sofie's voice was calm and reassuring.

"Sofie! You should be in bed!" Marcus sputtered.

"The shouting woke me up, Papa," his daughter replied. "Let me do this. I'm better at it than you."

"Sweetheart—"

"I'll need the potions from my room," she continued as if he hadn't spoken. "The ones in the blue bottles that Mama helped me make."

With those words, Sofie knelt down and began to channel much stronger healing energy into Adrianne than Marcus had been able to do. Torn, her father watched her work for several seconds before she reminded him, "The potions, Papa. I need the potions."

"Right. Potions," he said. For a moment longer he stared at his older daughter, kneeling by the injured smith in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night. In her blue nightgown with her blonde braid trailing down her back, she suddenly seemed much older than her fourteen years. Then he kicked himself into gear and bolted back to Breezehome where Lucia met him at the door, a wooden box filled with six blue potion bottles in her hands.

"I knew she'd need these," Little Sister said smugly.

"Is Adrianne going to be alright, Dad?" Blaise asked from just behind her.

"I hope so, son," was all Marcus would say before rushing back to the little group in front of Warmaiden's, side-swiping the Orc who still stood nearby, observing. Marcus felt a bit irritated at the spectator, but had no time to address the matter.

He set the box down next to his daughter and opened one of the bottles for her. She drank it quickly, then resumed her healing. By the time Danica finally arrived, a robe thrown over her nightgown and her sleep-tussled hair escaping its braid, four of Sofie's potions had been consumed, and the young girl looked exhausted.

Danica quickly examined Adrianne, however, and smiled in satisfaction. "You did well, child," she praised. "I'm very proud of you. Your quick action might just have saved her life. But she has a long road of recovery ahead of her. Sigurd, Amren, Ulfberth, pick her up carefully now and bring her up to the Temple. With Kynareth's blessing I may be able to make certain she doesn't turn into a vampire."

Gently, almost tenderly, the Imperial woman was picked up and carefully carried up the hill to the Temple.

"She didn't thank _you_ , Papa," Sofie frowned when they had gone. "You healed her first."

"That's alright, sweetheart," he smiled tiredly. "I wasn't able to do that much. It really was your healing that kept her stable enough to be moved. I'm also very proud of you."

"Thank you, Papa," the teen replied, yawning widely. "Can I go back to bed now?"

Marcus chuckled. "Absolutely, dear. Don't forget your other potions." He looked back at the other bodies and nodded to Sofie. "I'll just be a minute. Go on back to bed."

Looking around, Marcus noticed the Orc had apparently wandered off. He crossed the road to where the Master Vampire had died. There was a shimmering layer of sooty dust collecting on the body, and Marcus – knowing enough about alchemy to know that vampire dust was rare and hard to come by – scraped off as much as he could from both undead into a small pouch he pulled from the larger one on his belt.

 _Sofie's probably too tired to think of this right now,_ he thought to himself with satisfaction, _and Tamsyn would never forgive me if I let this opportunity pass._

The guards waited respectfully nearby until he was done, then set about the business of disposing of the bodies of the enemies, and preparing the bodies of the slain guards to be taken to the Hall of the Dead.

As he returned home, Blaise met him at the door. "Dad, we have a problem."

Instantly alert, Marcus set the bag of vampire dust down on a nearby table. _"What_ problem?" he asked warily.

"Alesan's not in his bed," the red-haired boy said. "I don't know where he is, or how long he's been gone, but after I saw them take Adrianne away I went back upstairs, and he wasn't there."

Marcus compressed his lips. This had gone far enough. "Alright, son," he said, keeping a tight rein on his temper. "Thanks for letting me know. Go back to bed. I'll go get your brother."

"You think he went back to Jorrvaskr?" Blaise asked, worried.

"I'm almost certain of it," Marcus said grimly. "Go on back to bed. I'll deal with this."

Blaise nodded, his eyes troubled, but he dutifully turned and headed back upstairs to his room. Marcus saw Lydia standing just beyond.

"Well?" he demanded, a bit harsher than he should have.

Lydia knew what he meant, and she wasn't happy with herself at all. She had been instructed to stay with the children, to protect them, and now one of them was missing. "He never came downstairs, Thane," she said morosely. "I swear to you! The other three came running down here when all the commotion began, but I don't remember seeing Alesan among them. He must have slipped out the hatch in the roof and used the ladder to get down to the ground."

Marcus blew out a breath. Yes, he _had_ installed that escape hatch two years ago; but at the time his only thought was for his family to use it as an escape route if enemies like the Thalmor invaded his home again. He never imagined his younger son would use it as a means of sneaking out of the house.

"Alright, Lydia," he said finally. "It's probably my fault, then. You did what I asked you to do."

"Are you going after him?" his Housecarl asked.

Marcus nodded. "I think I have to. And we'll both have a talk with the Harbinger this time. I don't think Kodlak's going to be too pleased with the boy about this. He already warned him against disrespecting his elders."

Once more, Marcus made the trip up to Jorrvaskr, making a supreme effort to diffuse the anger and frustration he felt over Alesan's stunt. At the mead hall of the Companions, he paused a moment to collect his thoughts before entering.

A wailing howl, muffled as if from a distance, ripped through the air, and the keening sound sent chills up Marcus' spine. It was like a dog, and yet like a human, too. He'd never heard anything like it. Down near the Gildergreen one of the guards stopped and made the sign of Kynareth on her chest.

"Divines preserve us!" she gasped. "What was _that?"_

Marcus didn't know, but it sounded like it came from the Skyforge, where Eorlund Gray-Mane labored each day making his Skyforge steel weapons and armaments. Cautiously, Marcus made his way around the mead hall to the path that led up the hill.

The cry split the air once more, and suddenly, a small figure emerged from the flat stone bedrock under the Skyforge, bolting past Marcus, emitting an ear-splitting scream as it rushed down the stairs, crossed the park and disappeared on the other side. Marcus only caught enough of a glimpse to see pale skin and blonde hair, and the tell-tale silhouette of scaled-down Blades armor – Lars Battle-Born. The boy never stopped screaming all the way home. But his screams weren't the ones Marcus heard, and now the cry came again, louder, and from the doorway that now stood partially open under the Skyforge. The night air was resonant with the sound of anger, terror and despair, all contained in one mournful wail.

Drawing his sword, Marcus crept over to the door and looked in, but it was far too dark to see anything. A light came from somewhere down at the end of a long, twisting tunnel, and Marcus followed it, hardly daring to breathe, as the sounds of roaring, snapping and whining grew louder. At length, he emerged in a room lit by sconces, hollowed out from the solid rock by unknown hands in the dimness of the past. Three figures huddled around a central font filled with blood. One of the figures was Skjor, who looked aghast at the Dragonborn's sudden entrance. The other two figures were wolfen, but stood on two hind legs. One was smaller than the other.

At sight of him, the three figures froze, and Marcus raised Alduin's Bane to strike down what he knew to be werewolves.

"Hold, Dragonborn!" Skjor cried. "These are not enemies! I am not under attack!"

At his words, Marcus paused, and two things happened at once. The larger werewolf morphed, changed, melded back into the form of Aela the Huntress. The smaller one took one long, anguished, pleading look at the Dragonborn, howled one more time and disappeared down a tunnel at the back of the chamber.

"This isn't what it looks like, Dragonborn," Aela began, but Marcus didn't hear her. He was thinking about the look the smaller werewolf had given him. Begging him to understand; pleading with him to help him with large brown eyes. Eyes that were exactly like Alesan's.

In fury, Marcus raised his blade again and turned on the two Companions. All his rage and frustration found an outlet at the words he roared at them.

" _What have you done to my son? What have you done to Alesan?"_

* * *

 _[Author's Note: For my new readers, I hope you haven't been confused too greatly, and I hope perhaps you'll be intrigued enough to read "Into the Maelstrom" to find out more of the backstory. For those who have followed me from my previous effort, welcome back. It's good to "see" you here again. I hope you enjoy this second installment of my "dimensionally displaced duo", as CrazyHades has dubbed them (I love that term! Thank you for that!). Please read and enjoy, and if you prefer, leave a few words in the Review Box below. Thank you again!]_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Marcus tried to remain calm, but all he felt right now was a turmoil of rage, indignation, betrayal and fear; mostly fear, and mostly for Alesan. Skjor had immediately 'gone wolf' and loped out of the Underforge, as Aela called it, through the so-called secret tunnel which led under the outer wall of Whiterun. Aela assured him that if anyone could find Alesan, it would be Skjor.

"I'll explain everything," she promised.

"You're damned straight you will, lady," he rumbled dangerously. "And you're going to wake up Kodlak, because I want to hear from him how a thing like this was allowed to happen!"

Aela paled under her war-paint. "There's no need to wake up the old man," she insisted. "We don't need to involve him in this. Skjor will find Alesan—"

"And what if he doesn't?" Marcus snarled. "Just what are you afraid of, Aela?"

"Nothing!" Aela growled. It was a wolfen sound, even in her human form. "There's just no need for everyone to know this—"

"Bullshit!" Marcus shouted, and the cavern rumbled dangerously. Drifts of dust trickled down from overhead. "Is this what you people do up here? Are you _all_ werewolves?"

"No! Not all of us!" Aela hissed. "And keep your voice down! Sounds carry through the Underforge."

"Tough shit, sister," Marcus ground out. "I think the more people who know what's going on here, the better. I'm getting Kodlak right now."

He strode out of the Underforge, straight into the mead hall itself. Helpless, seeing everything fall apart around her, Aela could do nothing but follow.

No one but Tilma was around when Marcus entered, but she hurried to fetch Kodlak when Marcus politely, but distinctly told her that if she didn't, he would reduce Jorrvaskr to a smoking hole in the ground. A few moments later, she gestured for the two of them to follow her down to the lower level. Marcus had never been in this part of the mead hall before, and might have taken a moment or two to appreciate the architecture, but right now he was too livid to focus on anything other than the fact that somewhere out there, in the wilds of Whiterun, was a terrified thirteen-year-old boy.

 _I'll find you, Alesan, I promise!_ he vowed silently. _I don't know what they've done to you, but I will fix it._

How long had Alesan been a werewolf? The boy had been surly for days. What had triggered the transformation tonight? There wasn't a full moon – both Masser and Secunda were thin crescents on the eastern horizon.

When Marcus and Aela were shown into the Harbinger's sitting room, Vilkas and his twin brother Farkas were already there, two pairs of deep-set eyes regarding the Dragonborn watchfully with what Marcus would almost have called a feral gleam. Farkas was taller, and wore his hair longer; Vilkas wore a unique set of armor matched only by Skjor's and the Harbinger's, embossed with a wolf's head on the breastplate. While he didn't know Vilkas that well, he had met Farkas on a few occasions, and found him to be a simple, quiet man. What they were both doing here now, Marcus couldn't imagine, but it seemed both men were on edge about something.

"Dragonborn," Kodlak greeted him. "Won't you sit down?"

"I'd rather not, Harbinger," Marcus declined shortly. Courtesy be damned; he was feeling anything but sociable at the moment. "I want to know how much you know about what's happened to my son."

"Alesan?" the old man blinked. "Why? What has happened?"

"Don't tell me you don't know," Marcus accused, frowning. Beside the Harbinger, Vilkas bristled. Kodlak made a slight gesture and the brooding young man backed down.

"As it happens, I don't," Kodlak confessed. "Aela? What is going on?"

"Kodlak….I….uh…" the Huntress floundered helplessly. Under the older man's glare, her bravado had vanished. She hung her head. "We didn't know that would happen," she murmured.

"Didn't know _what_ would happen?" Kodlak asked sternly. "Aela. Speak."

 _Almost like he's commanding a puppy,_ that inner Voice of Marcus' spoke up. Apparently Akatosh had been shaken from his complacency of the last year or so and had taken an interest in the proceedings.

"They turned my son into a werewolf!" Marcus shouted angrily, and though he didn't use the _thu'um_ , the floor rumbled under their feet, reminding all of them just who they were dealing with.

Shocked, Kodlak turned back to Aela, who looked as though she wished that rumbling earth had opened up to swallow her whole. "Aela! Is this true?" The old man's sun-bronzed face had gone several shades paler.

Aela could only nod. Kodlak looked stunned, as did Vilkas and Farkas beside him. The Harbinger sat down heavily into a chair.

"Why, Aela?" he managed. "Why would you take an untried whelp and bring him into the Circle without letting me know?"

"They would have done the same to Lars Battle-Born, too," Marcus growled, "except the poor kid was so terrified seeing his best friend become a beast, he booked it out of there and ran home, screaming all the way." He glared at the Harbinger. "So what I want to know is…what are you going to do about it? My son is out there somewhere, scared, alone, and probably too humiliated to show his face to me."

"They?" Kodlak inquired. "Who else was in on this? You, Farkas?" He turned and glared at the larger twin. The silent accusation spoke volumes. Apparently this was just the sort of thing the larger twin might have done.

But the big Nord shook his shaggy dark head. "Not me, Harbinger! I was asleep when it happened. Ask 'Kas. He woke me up."

"My brother's right," Vilkas replied with a scowl. "Neither of us knew anything about this."

"It was just Skjor and me, Harbinger," Aela confessed. "We thought we could bring new blood in to the Circle. Not everyone thinks it's a curse, after all." She raised her chin defiantly. "It's just that…the boy panicked, and we couldn't calm him enough for him to change back. Then the Dragonborn burst in and…and, well…" She trailed off lamely.

Kodlak stood, and even past sixty, his was an imposing figure, topping six-foot-four. "You had no right, Aela!" he thundered. "None at all! To fill a whelp's head with glory tales is one thing. To bring him, untried and untested, into the Circle, is unconscionable!"

"With all due respect, Kodlak, Alesan and Lars were experienced beyond their years," Aela insisted mulishly. "Both of them helped to bring down a dragon. Who among us has done that? We didn't force them to take the Blood. We merely told them of the opportunity to become stronger and faster and let them make their own choices."

Marcus was incredulous. The woman's gall was appalling. "The choice of a thirteen-year-old?" he demanded. "A boy who isn't even mature enough to remember to do his chores before slipping out to be with his friends? He hasn't even grown his first chin hairs!"

"You stifle him!" Aela accused. "You don't trust him enough to live his own life!"

"You still did not have the right," Kodlak glowered. "By the Jarl's law, both Alesan and Lars are not yet fully grown. The Blood does not react the same way on juveniles as it does on adults."

Aela's bravado faltered. "I…I didn't know that," she admitted. "I thought—" Her voice trailed off again, and it was obvious she was troubled.

Marcus frowned. "I don't understand what you're talking about," he rumbled. "What's the 'Circle'? And what's this crap about blood not working?"

Kodlak sighed and suddenly looked much older. "Dragonborn, I am profoundly sorry this has happened. Please sit down. This may take some time." He turned a stern eye on the Huntress, still standing there. "Where is Skjor now?"

"He went after Alesan," she replied, subdued.

"Pray he finds the boy before the Silver Hand does," Kodlak intoned. "If anything should happen, it will be on your head, Aela…yours and Skjor's. You have acted with grave dishonor, and I am ashamed of both of you."

Totally submissive now to her pack leader, Aela seemed to shrink in on herself. "I'll return to the Underforge and wait for their return," she said quietly. She didn't look at Marcus as she left.

"We'll leave you two to…talk things out," Vilkas offered, punching his brother on the arm and jerking his head toward the door. It took a couple of heartbeats for Farkas to understand what his brother wanted, but he followed his twin out the door, closing it behind them.

Marcus had a sickening feeling he was about to get worse news than the fact his son was now a werewolf, though he didn't know how that could be possible. Suddenly his knees didn't seem to want to work properly, and he sank into the chair opposite the Harbinger.

"What did you mean, about the Silver Hand?" he asked quietly. "Who or what are they?"

Kodlak took a deep breath. "I will ask you to please try and hold your questions until I am finished, Dragonborn," he said. "Let me tell you what I know."

For a long moment, Kodlak stared into the candle flame burning in the sconce on the table between them. Marcus had the feeling he wasn't looking at the flame, but at something deep in his past.

"Like most of our band, I found this family after losing my own. I lost my mother, my father, and my grandfather when I was very young," the Harbinger said quietly. "I wasn't much older than Alesan is now. I had a rough life growing up on the streets, and learned to fight and defend myself at an early age. It wasn't long before the riff-raff and the low-lifes knew me, and gave me a wide berth. Even as a boy, I was much larger and stronger than most of them. It was my Nord heritage, you see."

Marcus had the feeling no answer was required here. The old man seemed to be speaking more to himself than to an audience.

"I traveled the length and breadth of this land, learning all I could of the sword and the axe. I was just a boy, but I had the fire of a man in my heart. Eventually, my body caught up to my spirit. My predecessor, Askar, found me in Hammerfell. I was serving as bodyguard for some weak-necked lord out there. He brought me back here, and I realized…that I was actually coming home. I work to bring honor to this family and to the family I lost. For my mother, my father and my grandfather. For all my Shield-Siblings. Family and honor. That's what it means to be one of us, Dragonborn. It means living such that your Shield-Siblings would proudly say they fought at your side. Glory in battle, honor in life. Deal with problems head on. Leave whispers and sneaking to the gutter-rats who can't fight for themselves."

He heaved a heavy sigh.

"That's why Aela's and Skjor's actions have cut me so deeply. There was no honor in it. It was all done behind my back, sneaking in the shadows, and hoping they wouldn't be caught until it was too late to do anything about it."

"What do you mean, 'too late'?" Marcus demanded. "Being a werewolf…it's a disease, isn't it? Once they bring Alesan back I can take him to the Temple of Kynareth and get him cured."

Kodlak shook his head. "I'm sorry, Dragonborn," he said sincerely. "I wish it was that easy. But this is no disease like vampirism. This is a curse, laid upon us hundreds of years ago."

Marcus felt his stomach drop. "You've got to be kidding me."

"I do not jest about something as serious as this, Dragonborn," Kodlak replied sadly. "The Companions are nearly five thousand years old. This matter of beastblood has only troubled us for a few hundred. One of my predecessors was a good, but short-sighted man. He made a bargain with the witches of Glenmoril Coven. If the Companions would hunt in the name of their lord, Hircine, we would be granted great power."

"They became werewolves," Marcus deduced.

Kodlak nodded. "They did not believe the change was permanent. The witches offered payment, like anyone else. But we had been deceived."

"They didn't tell you how it would change you," Marcus said.

Again, the Harbinger nodded. "The witches didn't lie," he said, fairly. "But it's more than just the change to our bodies. The disease, you see – or curse, depending on your viewpoint – seeps into our spirit. Upon death, werewolves are claimed by Hircine for his Hunting Grounds. For some, like Skjor and Aela, this is a paradise. They want nothing more than to chase prey with their master for eternity. And that is their choice. But it is not mine, and it is not a choice they should have forced upon impressionable young lads like Lars and Alesan. I am still a true Nord, and I wish for Sovngarde as my spirit home."

Marcus had been to Sovngarde, and while it was pleasant enough, he wasn't sure he wanted to spend eternity drinking, wenching and singing songs of valor with heroes of old.

 _There are worse ways to spend your afterlife, you know,_ his inner dragon pointed out.

 _Probably,_ Marcus conceded privately, _but to have that choice taken away from you by a curse?_ He remembered Ysgramor's final words to him in Sovngarde, after the defeat of Alduin, regarding the Harbinger:

" _There is a darkness that lies upon his soul which will prevent him from joining us in these august halls. It is an alien thing, like a sickness. Without a cure, he will never find his way here, and even if he did, he would be turned away at the door."_

"Please tell me there's a cure for this," he said now. There _had_ to be one. Alesan was too young to have this decision forced upon him. Aela and Skjor had much to atone for!

"That is what I have spent my twilight years trying to find out," Kodlak admitted. "I believe I am close to discovering a possible cure. How effective it will be remains to be seen, assuming it can be made."

"I could send word to Tamsyn, in Cyrodiil," Marcus offered. "She's very talented at healing magic. She may be able to help."

"Your wife might not arrive in time," Kodlak said, after a moment's hesitation. "There is one thing more I have not yet revealed to you. Aela and Skjor did not know of this. No one did. I kept it to myself all these years because bringing new blood into the Circle is something that has always had to be sanctioned by the Harbinger. Aela and Skjor overstepped their authority, and because of that, they have put your son at risk."

"You'd better tell me what you're leading up to," Marcus said slowly. "I've got a feeling I'm not going to like it."

Kodlak slumped, and again, Marcus was reminded of just how old the Harbinger was…certainly older than he had been when he'd left Gaea behind to come to Nirn.

"The reason we do not accept whelps into the Circle isn't just because of their lack of experience," the old man said. "Because they are young and still growing, their bodies are changing all the time. Their emotions run rampant. They're—" He broke off, searching for the right words.

"Their hormones are out of whack," Marcus supplied. "I get it. Go on."

"Interesting phrase," Kodlak mused. "But yes, I suppose that just about describes it. Because of this, they tend to be erratic and panic easily. Taking the Blood changes us, but only if our bodies have stabilized and matured. I will assume you saw Aela's wolf form? And that you also saw her change back?"

Marcus nodded shortly.

"That can only happen when the blood and flesh have settled into maturity. In a whelp who is changing and growing every day, it becomes…fixed."

Marcus blinked. "What do you mean, 'fixed'? Fixed as in…'permanent'?"

"The beastblood stabilizes the fluctuations of the body in a youth," Kodlak admitted. "I saw it happen once, before I became Harbinger. One among us gave the Blood to his son. The boy turned wolf and…didn't revert back. In panic, he ran, much as Alesan has done tonight. The boy's father had done this without the knowledge of the Circle or the Harbinger, Askar. When he finally caught up with the boy – who had been unable to change back – angry, frightened villagers had killed him. In rage, the father tore through the village and killed many innocent people who were only protecting themselves from the beast they perceived the boy to be."

"And what happened to the father?"

"He suffered grievous wounds, but managed to escape. In his grief, he threw himself from a cliff. We found him, gravely injured and dying, and he told us what had happened before Hircine claimed him."

Marcus was silent for several moments, digesting this. Finally he asked, "Who or what is the Silver Hand?"

"A group of werewolf hunters," Kodlak said shortly. "Little more than bandits who prey on the unwary along the roads, really," he continued, "but they have made it a point to seek out and entrap our company when we travel. They do not dare to attack us here, at Jorrvaskr. But somehow, some way, they have figured out our secret, and so they hunt us with silver, which burns like fire in our veins." The old man's voice grew harsh, and a snarl curled his lip. "They are cowards, and have no honor. They do not openly challenge us, but hope to take us by stealth and surprise."

Marcus took a deep breath. "So…let me get this straight: two of your exalted Company here have turned my son – a thirteen-year-old boy – into a werewolf. Because he's still growing and maturing, the beastblood they fed him has fixed him in wolf form, and he's out there somewhere, right now, where a bunch of silver-sword-wielding maniacs might kill him just because he's a werewolf? Did I get that right?"

Kodlak nodded unhappily.

"And let me further establish that these two people of yours went behind your back to do this, because you didn't see fit to tell them of the consequences of turning a youngster into a werewolf – a disease or curse for which you have no cure? Is that correct?"

"I know it sounds very bad when you put it that way, Dragonborn," the Harbinger said helplessly.

Marcus nodded. "Well, I have only one thing to say," he said finally, getting to his feet.

"Yes?"

The Dragonborn took a deep breath and leveled a deadly glare at the older man. "You'd better pray that Skjor finds him fast, or you'll think High King Torygg got off easy."

* * *

Marcus strode away from Jorrvaskr, his mind in turmoil. How could they have let this happen? The Companions were widely regarded as probably the most honorable organization a fighter could hope to join. He had even, at one time when he first came to Tamriel, wanted to join them. He remembered walking up to Whiterun with Tamsyn, soon after they had come to Skyrim. He had first seen the Companions in action then, fighting a giant at Pelagia Severio's farm outside of town. Marcus had leaped in to help, and it was Aela who had suggested he join them.

Tamsyn had seemed less enthusiastic, and now he knew she had been keeping something from him even then.

" _You're thinking about joining them, aren't you?"_ she had asked.

" _Maybe,"_ he had shrugged _. "Why? You don't like them?"_

" _I don't dislike them. I've done their questline before in the game…If you want to join them, I'm not your Mom. You don't need my permission."_

She had done their questline, so she knew their secret. And because she had left him shortly afterwards, she had allowed him to make the decision for himself whether or not to join the Companions. He would have found out sooner or later. He wondered what she would say now if he told her he was joining them. It didn't mean he would choose to become a werewolf; that was unthinkable. But the gild was off the bloom now, and in his own mind, their reputation was somewhat tarnished.

He sat down on a bench under the Gildergreen and put his head in his hands. The wind soughed through the perfumed branches overhead.

 _Alesan, my poor boy,_ he anguished. _Please be safe! Kynareth, watch over him, please!_

In his previous life, Marcus had been a very religious man. He had believed in God, even when it seemed no proof existed. He had always known that faith, by its very nature, was something one believed in regardless of tangible proof. He had read his Bible, gone to Church every Sunday with his family, and in general had tried to live his life according to the Ten Commandments. Whenever he had been at his lowest, prayer had always gotten him through it.

The God he believed in while he lived in Gaea did not exist here. Here, in Skyrim, it wasn't just one God who seemed to reside over the destinies of men, but several. When he had had to go to Sovngarde – the Nord equivalent of Heaven – to defeat Alduin, he had even met the Nine Divines. The feeling of intimidating awe was very pervasive there. Even though he was still corporeal, he had felt very transparent, as if each and every one of the gods of Nirn had taken his measure and seen his worth. Still, the sense that they watched over the people of Nirn was one he took comfort in, and so he prayed now to any of the Nine who might listen to keep Alesan safe.

 _You aren't still in awe of me, I hope?_ came that amused, sardonic Voice in his head.

Marcus gave a faint smile. _Always,_ he thought back. _You're a god, after all. You've got all kinds of power at your fingertips._

 _You have power, too, Marcus. Don't forget that,_ Akatosh said _. And you have intelligence. That's greater than power. You'll figure this out._

Marcus stood and paced around the tree. _Is he safe?_ he asked, not really expecting an answer. Sometimes Akatosh would absent himself just when he felt he needed guidance the most.

There was a hesitation before the Dragon God of Time spoke. _He is safe, for the moment,_ the god replied, compassion in his voice. _But other events are unfolding, and you will need to address them._

 _Nothing is more important to me right now than finding my son!_ Marcus insisted firmly.

 _I know that,_ Akatosh said soothingly. _But understand that these events will soon escalate, and you will have to devote your entire attention to them. More than the life of your son is at risk here._

 _Couldn't Tamsyn handle it, then?_ He knew he was sounding as bad as Alesan, and right now he didn't care. He was too twisted up with worry to give a damn about anything else.

 _Tamsyn is busy with other tasks, Marcus,_ Akatosh said sternly. _Your son is safe, for now, and you will have time to deal with that issue. Just do not neglect your other responsibilities to the people of Nirn._

With that, the presence faded, and Marcus knew he was alone once more. Well, at least he hadn't been taken to task. Sometimes Marcus wondered if Akatosh ever looked at the small picture. Little things were sometimes equally as important as the big things.

He ran a hand through his hair, as he often did when exasperated, and turned his steps towards home. He had no illusions about the other children being asleep. He knew they were waiting for him, hoping he had brought their brother back with him. What would he say? What _could_ he say? _"Gee, kids, I'm sorry, but your brother's a werewolf now and I have no idea 'were' he's gone. Get it? 'Were'?"_ He grimaced at his own macabre thoughts. This was certainly no time to joke, even to himself.

He almost didn't see the figure as he turned the corner at Carlotta's stall, and put out a hand to prevent from walking full-tilt into the armored Orc he had seen earlier.

"Sorry," Marcus apologized. "My fault. I've got a lot on my mind tonight." He moved to pass the Orc, but the burly fighter blocked his way.

"You!" he growled. "The Dawnguard is looking for anyone willing to fight the growing vampire menace. What do you say?"

Well, that was nice and diplomatic.

"Dawnguard, eh?" Marcus mused. "Sounds like the National Guard. What's this about a 'growing vampire menace'?" He had been keeping fairly close to home the last few months, so if this was something new, he hadn't heard about it. Certainly Balgruuf would have mentioned it.

"We're vampire hunters," the Orc explained. "I'm Durak. Just last week a group of vampires attacked the Hall of the Vigilants of Stendarr. That's never happened before; they've never been so bold. The entire Hall was destroyed because the Vigilants didn't take the threat seriously enough."

"What?" Marcus demanded incredulously. "The _entire_ Hall?"

Durak nodded. "Burned to the ground," he affirmed. "The Vigilants were all torn to pieces when they tried to go up against this new breed of vampire. That's why our leader, Isran, is bringing back the Dawnguard."

So this was what Stendarr had warned him about in Sovngarde!

" _You must prepare yourself…the Children of my hated Enemy are on the rise, and soon will be ready to strike."_

 _New breed of vampires, eh?_ The group that had attacked earlier tonight had brought death hounds with them. The ones that had killed Skulvar two years ago had also had death hounds. The ones he and Uthgerd had fought in Movarth's Lair didn't have them, nor did the ones he'd fought at Moldering Ruins.

This must have been what Akatosh meant about 'other events unfolding.' If the vampires were becoming organized enough to attack an entire temple of Vigilants, it was a serious threat indeed. Marcus knew his allies couldn't afford to have that kind of distraction going on right now; supply lines needed to be kept secret, so most of their movements were carried out under cover of night. With trained soldiers guarding the transports, an attack at night might not ordinarily be an issue. Vampires, however, were generally believed to be stronger at night. How could you fight an enemy who could turn invisible and fade into the darkness?

Marcus himself had had a hard time earlier, trying to find the Master Vampire after he had vanished. There was usually a sort of warping in the air where they were, like heat waves rising up off asphalt on a hot summer's day. It was easier to spot that tell-tale sign during the day; at night, it was nearly impossible. That was bad enough, but if they also had death hounds with them? He shuddered. He'd seen what just one of them had done to Adrianne.

Realizing this was a potentially serious problem that needed to be resolved, Marcus looked Durak in the eyes. "Vampires, eh?" he said. "Where do I sign up?"

"Hah!" Durak laughed. "Isran's gonna like you! We're gathering at Fort Dawnguard, east of Riften. Talk to him there, and he'll get you set up."

With that, Durak saluted him a farewell and headed for the city gates, disappearing into the night.

Marcus stood there for a moment, absorbing it all in.

 _What have I just signed on for?_ he wondered. _And what do I tell Tamsyn?_

* * *

The journey down to the Imperial City had been tedious and arduous for Tamsyn, Argis and Cicero. Climbing through the pass of the Jerall Mountains had taken most of the day. They had crossed over into Cyrodiil late in the afternoon and reached Bruma by nightfall. The closed carriage stopped there to rest the horses and allow the passengers to sleep at a comfortable inn of their choice before resuming their journey at daybreak the following day. They had been on the road for two days and were already tired and grumpy. Besides the three of them, there was a Bosmer merchant, two Imperial soldiers, and a querulous Breton woman who insisted she absolutely _must_ ride facing forward or be subject to motion sickness. Since there was only room inside the carriage for six people, Argis had elected to sit outside, next to the driver.

As soon as the carriage stopped, the Bosmer leaped out and hurried off down the street, disappearing into the night. The two Imperial soldiers headed up towards Castle Bruma, presumably to stay at the barracks. The Breton woman huffed and fretted about her luggage, scolding the poor driver who was doing his best to pull a particular trunk off the top of the rig.

"I'll get it," Argis said, reaching up easily and hauling the trunk down.

"Oh my!" the Breton woman exclaimed, admiring his physique. Her eyes swept him up and down. "I don't suppose you might be so kind as to take it to the Jerall View Inn for me?" she simpered. "I have a…private room there."

Argis looked over at Tamsyn, who was doing her best to keep a straight face. Cicero wasn't having as much luck, glowering at the woman. His fingers flexed, as though desperately keeping himself from drawing Stabby and Pokey, his two daggers, right there and then on the unsuspecting matron.

Argis dropped the trunk on the ground. It landed with a resounding _thunk._ "Nope," he said succinctly. "I don't work for the carriage line," he told her, brushing past and standing near Cicero. "Besides, I'm taken." He draped an affectionate arm over Cicero's shoulders, bringing a ridiculous grin to Cicero's face and a thunderous scowl to the Breton woman's.

With an exclamation of disgust and frustration, the woman huffed off. The carriage driver merely rolled his eyes as he hoisted the trunk onto his back and followed her.

"Where should we stay tonight, Cicero?" Tamsyn asked with repressed mirth. She didn't know Cyrodiil nearly as well as Skyrim. In her previous life she had only played _Oblivion_ a scant handful of times. Her memories of the game were still clear, however. She knew that from here it would take another day or two to reach the Imperial City. They would stop tomorrow night in Aleswell.

"Hmmm…" the little jester murmured. "Bruma has changed much since Cicero was last here," he commented. "He used to stay at the Tap and Tack, near the east gate, but that is a rough place, and certainly not for the likes of pretty Tamsyn."

"Is there a better place?" Argis rumbled. He didn't want to cause a disturbance by simply protecting his charge, but this 'Tap and Tack' didn't sound like anyplace his Thane's wife should be staying at.

"Sadly, the only other place to stay in Bruma is the Jerall View," the jester grimaced. "But if that…that _hussy_ thinks she can woo you away, I'll—"

"You'll do nothing, Cicero," Tamsyn said sharply, all amusement aside. "And she won't either. Argis made it quite clear to her where his affections lie. If we have to stay at the Jerall View, let's head over there now and see if there are a couple of rooms available."

There were, and Tamsyn paid for their night's lodging. The innkeeper, Hanon Hollowleg, led them downstairs to the sub-level where the rooms were. At the end of the hall, they saw the huffy Breton woman following the carriage driver into her room, haranguing him about the care of her trunk. She paused only long enough to glance their way, wrinkling her nose in annoyance before entering her room. The driver emerged a few moments later and nodded to them, muttering under his breath.

" _So_ glad she's not continuing on!"

Tamsyn smirked and Argis chuckled.

"Does pretty Tamsyn need anything before dear Argis and I retire?" Cicero asked solicitously.

She shook her head. "No, I'm good, Cicero. Thank you for asking. We'll be getting an early start in the morning, so the sooner we hit the hay, the longer we get to sleep." A mischievous gleam came into her eyes. "Of course, if you two decide you're not ready for _sleep_ yet, I'll just set a Muffle spell around my room. It won't help the _other_ patrons, but…oh well…" She grinned.

Cicero cackled wickedly and a grin split Argis' handsome, scarred face.

"Good night, boys!" Tamsyn bid them cheerily as she closed her door. She wasted no time setting up her Muffle spell and extending its duration. A tiny part of her felt sorry for the Breton woman on the other side of the two lovers, but she quickly squelched it and retired to bed.

Early the next morning they set off again. They had the carriage to themselves, at least for the first leg of the final stretch.

Cicero reported gleefully that there was a strange pounding noise on the other side of their room during the night, but it didn't prevent 'dear Argis' and him from enjoying their tryst.

They stopped to rest the horses and stretch their legs at Bleaker's Way, where they picked up three more passengers. Tamsyn stiffened as she recognized the elven armor and robes of a Thalmor enforcement squad. The Justiciar was tall and willowy, and obviously female, but her face was covered with an intricately-tooled leather mask. Only her eyes were visible; twin orbs of palest blue glaring out at the world. Tamsyn touched both men lightly on the arm when she saw them.

"Not a word," she hissed as the Thalmor trio spoke with the driver to negotiate passage. When they boarded the carriage, Argis volunteered to sit with the driver again, to give them more room to relax. Tamsyn knew his reasoning: if anything happened in the close quarters, Cicero would need room to maneuver, and Argis wanted to be topside to watch for any kind of ambush.

The carriage moved on and the occupants settled in with a nod to each other before staring out the window.

At length, the masked Justiciar spoke.

"You are the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, are you not?"

Her voice was low and pleasant enough, but there was a cold edge to it that sent a chill down Tamsyn's spine.

"I am," Tamsyn admitted. As she was dressed in her official robes of state, it would have been foolish to deny her identity. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure?"

"Sylfaen Telperion," the Justiciar said, her voice slightly muffled behind the mask. "I am Chief Interrogator for First Emissary Gwaiden, of the Aldmeri Dominion. You are traveling to the Imperial City." It was a statement, not a question.

Tamsyn nodded. Again, it would have been pointless to refute it. No doubt the Thalmor already knew of her invitation from the Synod.

"I hope you enjoy your visit to our City," Justiciar Telperion said, though there was no warmth in her expression. "Have you been here before?"

 _Yes, about two hundred years ago,_ Tamsyn smirked to herself. Well, she _had_ played _Oblivion,_ just not with the intensity with which she'd thrown herself into _Skyrim._

There was a sudden, faint brush in her mind, and she froze. Any words she might have said dangled unspoken on her lips. Someone was trying to read her thoughts! If she hadn't spent so much time with the Auger of Dunlaine, she might not have noticed. Now, the deflector shields went up in full force, and behind the mask, she saw a slight narrowing of those pale blue eyes. If she hadn't been looking directly at the woman, she might have missed it completely.

"No," she said aloud, forcing herself to smile. "I've never been in Cyrodiil before. But as this is a business trip, I doubt I will have much time to appreciate your lovely city to its fullest extent."

Beside her, Cicero shifted uneasily. She knew she had promised they would try to visit Cheydinhal, but hoped he wouldn't bring it up right now. Thankfully, he remained silent.

"A pity," Justiciar Telperion commented. "The Imperial City is the crown jewel of the Empire, as it were."

"So I've been told," Tamsyn agreed. Desperately, she wondered if the Justiciar had tried probing Argis and Cicero as well.

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence for the next several miles before the Thalmor Justiciar spoke again.

"It is rumored you are married to the one they call 'Dragonborn'. Is this true?"

"It's not a rumor," Tamsyn said, on her guard once more. "Marcus and I have been married for over a year now."

"How is it that you can be the Arch-Mage, and yet still be the wife of the Dragonborn at the same time? Does not being one preclude the ability to be the other? Surely you cannot be effective at both?"

 _You should see women in Gaea,_ Tamsyn thought wryly. _They often juggle a job_ and _a home, and do it very well._ Aloud, she merely said, "I can assure you I am quite capable of being both Arch-Mage and Marcus' wife at the same time. Being one doesn't mean I can't also be the other."

"Forgive me," the Justiciar said, though there was no apology in her tone. "I did not mean to imply that you could not. I was merely curious whether dividing one's time between a family and a responsibility such as Arch-Mage would make you…less effective at one or the other. Or that perhaps both would suffer if you could not devote your entire attention to it."

 _Try me sometime, sister,_ Tamsyn fumed privately. _Take your best shot. I'll show you how 'effective' I can be!_ Infuriated, she nevertheless kept a firm grip on shielding her mind from the Thalmor woman. _I know what you're up to, and it isn't going to work!_

"It appears I may have touched a nerve and upset you," Justiciar Telperion continued. "I do apologize. That was not my intent."

"I don't know you well enough for you to upset me," Tamsyn replied coolly. "But I accept your apology. Tell me, Justiciar, how does one rise to your position? What skills and talents do you need to become a Justiciar? I admit I'm curious." _And please tell me more about this Thalmor mind-probe you seem to be able to do. There was nothing about this in the game!_

The pale blue eyes narrowed again, as if irritated that the line of questioning had been turned on her. "That is not something we generally discuss with…those who are not within the Order," the Thalmor agent said slowly. "But to satisfy your curiosity, I will say this: first and foremost, we must display formidable prowess with magic. Second, we must show considerable skill in the area of…information gathering."

 _Torture,_ Tamsyn thought in disgust. _Just call it what it is._ The Thalmor were firm believers in the infliction of pain and suffering to obtain military intelligence.

"Interesting," was all she said aloud. "And can anyone become a Thalmor?" she inquired. "I mean, are all of you Altmer, or are there Justiciars of other races?"

There was a brief flicker in the pale eyes. Again, it was so faint that Tamsyn thought for a moment she might have imagined it. Was it anger or surprise?

"Only those Altmer who have proven their loyalty and service to the Dominion are chosen to rise to the rank of Justiciar," agent Telperion said firmly, an edge of ice to her voice. "You will forgive me if I terminate our conversation," she continued suddenly. "I have already traveled for many days, and I am quite weary. I must rest for now."

 _Retreat! Retreat!_ Tamsyn thought with some amusement as the Justiciar closed her eyes. _Warning shots have been fired!_

Tamsyn had a feeling she wasn't asleep, or even pretending to be. Her attitude was one of meditation and repose, as comfortably as she could manage within the confines of the carriage.

She glanced at Cicero, who was staring unhappily out of the window. He turned his head slightly and looked up at her bleakly, then furrowed his brow, glaring at the two alert Thalmor soldiers sitting opposite them. She knew what he was thinking. How quickly could they kill the Justiciar and her guards and dump the bodies off in the woods somewhere?

She patted his hand comfortingly, but gave him the slightest warning shake of the head. _Not here. Not now,_ it said, and Cicero shifted and scowled again, heaving a huge sigh of frustration before staring out the window at the passing scenery.

They pulled into Aleswell as the sun began to set behind the Colovian Mountains to the west. To the north, the Jeralls were fading into the distant gloom of the evening. To the south, across the Red Ring Road, lay Lake Rumare. In its center, rising majestically into the sky on City Isle, was the great capital of Cyrodiil – the Imperial City. Though they were close enough for Tamsyn to fly out to it if she chose – and a mischievous part of her mind wondered what Justiciar Telperion would make of _that_ – she knew it would still take most of tomorrow to circumnavigate the Red Ring Road to the crossing at Weye, where they would finally be able to cross the lake via the causeway bridge.

The Justiciar and her escort disembarked immediately and headed into the inn. Tamsyn hung back on pretense of retrieving something she had "forgotten" inside the carriage, and Argis and Cicero waited nearby.

"Pleeeeease, pretty Tamsyn," Cicero whined in a whisper. "Please let Cicero stabbity-stab-stab the nasty Thalmor!"

"You know I can't let you do that, Cicero," Tamsyn said firmly. "For one thing, it would put a bounty on my head; for another, this is far too public a place for a mafia-style hit."

Distracted, Cicero asked, "What is a 'mafia'?"

"Organized crime, where I come from," Tamsyn said shortly. "Professional murderers."

"Ooo!" Cicero exclaimed. "Are they Dark Brotherhood?"

"They might as well be," Tamsyn replied sourly. "Listen up, gentlemen. We can't afford to call too much attention to ourselves. I don't know if you're aware of it, but that Justiciar tried sneaking into my mind on this trip."

"What?" Argis looked shocked. "She didn't get in, did she?" Though he looked every inch the stereotypical 'big, dumb fighter', Argis was in fact quite clever – far more intelligent than he let on. Though he couldn't do magic very well, if at all, he nevertheless understood many of its principles. His Reachfolk mother had been an accomplished mage in her own right.

"No, I kept her out as soon as I felt the brush of her presence," Tamsyn said. "Cicero, did you feel anything?"

"A breath," he admitted. "A whisper. A sigh. But Cicero has long been pledged to Sithis, and no one can take what the Dread Father claims as his own."

"That's good." Tamsyn said, relieved. "Argis, did you feel anything?"

"No," he answered. "I don't know a lot about magic, but I think I would have noticed someone trying to sneak in."

Tamsyn breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, that's a mercy, at least."

"What are we gonna do, then?" Argis asked. "We can't go on any further tonight, and we can't head back. You wanna stay at the same inn they're staying at?"

"Cicero is very much afraid we have little choice, dear Argis," the jester said. "Aleswell isn't much more than a wide spot in the road. There's only the one inn here."

"He's right," Tamsyn said. "We'll have to stay alert. I don't think they'll try anything. I'm not even a hundred percent sure they were out looking for us. I'm hoping it was just sheer bad luck that they happened to be in Bleaker's Way at the same time as us, and are just coincidentally headed to the same place."

They made their way inside and were greeted by the apologetic innkeeper, Diram Serethi.

"I'm so sorry," the Dunmer told them. "I just rented out my only two rooms upstairs. I don't get many visitors, you see. Most folk want to keep on going to the Imperial City."

"So you might as well just hike it from here," a Dunmer woman in the corner jeered.

"Quiet, Adosi," Diram called back. "I've had just about enough out of you."

"And what are you going to do, eh?" Adosi sneered back. "Nothing! It's what you always do. It's what you're best at!"

"He should never have made her visible again," Diram muttered. "At least I wouldn't have to look at her ugly mug."

"Is there any place else we can sleep tonight?" Tamsyn asked, mildly irritated at the Dunmer woman, but refusing to rise to the bait.

"How about the dung heap?" Adosi called. "Can't smell any worse than you folk do already!"

Cicero smiled genially and sauntered over to the woman. He leaned in close and whispered in her ear. The woman's blue-gray skin went ashen, and she rose swiftly, fleeing the inn. The door swung on its hinges behind her.

Diram chuckled. "Mister, I don't know what you said to her, and I don't care! That's the first time anyone's ever shut my sister up since I can remember." He laughed loud and long. When he recovered, he surveyed the three travelers.

"Tell you what I'm going to do," he offered. He dug into his pocket and held out a key. "Just across the yard, directly across in fact, is my house. There's a couple rooms there, and I'll even rent it out to you at half cost. It's worth it to me for the entertainment you've given me tonight!"

"We can't kick you out of your own home," Tamsyn protested, while Argis and Cicero tried to shush her.

"I've got a room back here, behind the counter," Diram said. "I'll be fine. Go ahead. Five septims each and it's yours for the night."

"Thank you," Tamsyn said gratefully, handing over the coins and taking the key.

This had actually worked out better than she had hoped! She'd been nervous about having to stay the night with the Thalmor so close. She would have been constantly on her guard, unable to sleep, lest the Justiciar creep into her mind while she was defenseless. The things the Thalmor might learn from her in that manner made her shudder!

At the farmhouse across the way they let themselves in and helped themselves to a simple meal of bread, fruit and cheese before settling down to discuss the turn of events.

"So," Tamsyn began, "your thoughts, gentlemen?"

"The Imperial City is very large," Cicero pointed out. "It will be much easier for us to…get lost…in a city that size."

"That Justiciar knew who you were," Argis rumbled dangerously. "That makes me suspicious right there."

"True," Tamsyn admitted. "But to be fair, I'm wearing my official robes. Anyone who knows what they look like will assume I'm the Arch-Mage."

"You sure she wasn't sent to capture you?" the big Nord worried.

"No," Tamsyn said. "I'm not sure. But for now I think I'm going to trust that, One: it was just an unlucky coincidence that they were in Bleaker's Way, and Two: that they aren't onto our plans at all."

"That's a lot to take on faith," Argis said skeptically.

"Cicero still thinks we should just disappear into the population here," the little Imperial declared. "Cicero knows many places we can hide until pretty Tamsyn meets with the Synod."

"It may come to that," Tamsyn mused. "But hopefully not yet. If we act react prematurely, that's only going to make them suspicious. All I want to do is speak with the members of the Synod and find out what they want. Why did they send that invitation to me, and why now? But keep those bolt-holes at the ready, Cicero," she added. "We may need them."

"D'you think she can read our minds from here?" Argis asked, worriedly.

Tamsyn shook her head. "No. At least, I hope she can't. You didn't feel anything on top of the carriage, so either you were too far away, or she needed line of sight. Perhaps she didn't think you were important enough to probe. Maybe that's why only Cicero and I felt anything."

"Cicero felt she asked far too many impertinent questions!" the jester declared. "Cicero thinks her nosy nose needs shaving back!" He ran a finger along one edge of Stabby, his dragon bone dagger. Pokey, the one made of ebony, lay on the table in front of him next to his whetstone and flask of oil.

"I wonder what she's hiding behind that mask," Argis mused. "I don't trust anyone whose face I can't see."

"It doesn't matter!" Cicero exclaimed cheerfully. "Cicero will send her soul to Sithis!" He began playing five-finger-filet with the dagger, increasing in speed until Argis cringed and Tamsyn laid a hand on his arm.

"Cicero, dear? That's not our table."

"Oh, heh heh," the little man said. "Sorry." He put the dagger away and took up the other to sharpen it. Tamsyn didn't know why he bothered. They were always razor-sharp. Perhaps this was why.

"Well, I don't know what else we can do at this point except wait and see what happens," Tamsyn continued. "There are too many unknowns at this point. I think all we can do is just stay alert."

"We know they're here now," Argis offered. "We'll be ready if they try anything."

"I hope you're right, Argis," Tamsyn said. "I really hope you're right."

* * *

Tamsyn and her entourage made it into the Imperial City by mid-afternoon the following day. Justiciar Telperion and her escort headed directly to the Imperial Palace at the core of the City. Tamsyn, Argis and Cicero breathed a collective sigh of relief, but did not relax their guard as they made their way to the Elven Gardens District, taking rooms at the King and Queen Tavern.

As soon as they were settled, Tamsyn sent Cicero off to confirm whether his secret places were still just that. She then sat down at the desk in her room and composed a letter to First Adjunct Vendrassi of the Synod, to inform him of her arrival in the Imperial City. Her next letter was addressed to Marcus, letting him know they had arrived safely and that she hoped he and the children were well. She sent both letters out by courier, then took Argis with her to the Market District to explore the shops.

She found several alchemical components at the Mystical Emporium, the Gilded Carafe, and the Main Ingredient which she couldn't get in Skyrim, but none of the proprietors was interested in shipping supplies all the way to Skyrim.

"The taxes and duties alone aren't worth it," said Calendil, of the Mystic Emporium. "I'd be happy to sell you anything you wish to buy, but you'll have to take it with you."

"Would you be willing to sell me live plants, then?" Tamsyn asked.

Calendil sniffed. "I don't carry live plantings," he scoffed. "They don't keep well. All my ingredients are freshly dried. If you want live plantings, get a shovel and go out into the fields."

 _I might just do that, Mister Snooty-Face,_ Tamsyn simmered. She was really beginning to dislike Altmer.

Seeing the Imperial City in a video game was one thing; seeing it in all its marble splendor was breath-taking. It was much larger than it had seemed in the game, also, and if Tamsyn didn't already understand that each of the districts radiated around the central landmark of the White-Gold Tower, she might have become hopelessly lost. From the Market District, she and Argis wandered clockwise through the Arena District, where the roar of the crowd rose above the sheer walls of the Arena itself. All around, combatants of all sorts sparred and practiced, awaiting their chance to enter the Arena to seek fame and fortune.

In the Arboretum, Tamsyn was disappointed, but not surprised, to find the statue of Tiber Septum had long since been removed. Only the Eight Divines surrounded the central plaza. She paused a moment at the statue to Julianos and stared at the carved stone features of the god of magic.

 _It doesn't look anything like you, Daddy,_ she whispered in her heart. There was no answer, nor did she expect one, but she knelt down and kissed the hem of his carved robe anyway.

The gate which led out to the causeway that crossed City Isle and led to the Arcane University was here in the Arboretum District, and Tamsyn made note of it before she and Argis moved on.

They entered the Temple of the One in the Temple District, and a shiver ran down Tamsyn's spine as she stared at the stone figure of the avatar of Akatosh, the petrified dragon that had once been Martin Septim. Though she had always felt slightly cheated at the finale of the game, seeing now just how large the statue was, she felt incredibly small and insignificant. Whatever made her think she could have taken on Mehrunes Dagon by herself, even if it _had_ only been a game?

The Temple District led into the Talos Plaza District, now renamed simply the Plaza District, which was mainly residential, but was where the gate which led to City Isle was located. From the Plaza District they worked their way back to the Elven Gardens District and the King and Queen Tavern.

By now it was early evening, and Cicero waited for them in the common room. The innkeeper, Luweyn Marillin approached Tamsyn.

"Ah! Arch-Mage Tamsyn! This came for you while you were out." He handed her a sealed letter before retreating back behind the counter.

The parchment was addressed only to her, and the seal on the back bore the crest of the Arcane University.

"Let's get some food and head upstairs," Tamsyn suggested. "We can discuss this better in private."

At length, they were settled around the small table in Tamsyn's room. It was snug, and Tamsyn herself was seated on the bed, but she felt it was an acceptable sacrifice for security. A Muffle spell set around the door also went a long way toward easing her mind that they might be overheard.

"What did you learn in the City today, Cicero?" she asked.

"There are no Dark Brothers or Sisters left in the City," the little jester replied mournfully. "But there are still thieves and rascals, and Cicero was able to learn much. What does pretty Tamsyn's letter say?"

The Breton girl broke the seal and opened the letter, reading it aloud.

"'To Arch-Mage Tamsyn of the College at Winterhold, from First Adjunct Vendrassi of the Arcane University at the Imperial City, Cyrodiil: greetings. I am delighted you have accepted our invitation to further explore the possibilities of a continued relationship with your distinguished institute—'" She broke off. "'Continued relationship'? Hah! He's already making assumptions! There's _no_ relationship right now, and there might never _be_ one. _Especially_ if he goes around making grand, sweeping statements like that!"

"What else does he say?" Argis asked.

Tamsyn scanned the rest of the page. "Well, there's a lot of flowery speech centered around the value of shared knowledge and a hope of an association based on mutual trust. He doesn't say anything about giving up any of their knowledge, but there are several hints in here regarding what he thinks my College might know."

"Like what?" Cicero inquired.

Tamsyn cleared her throat. "Um…well…he suggests that I've found a way to enter into the realm of Aetherius, and that knowledge like that could be beneficial for all concerned. Somehow, I don't think Akatosh would see it that way."

Argis furrowed his brow. "Why would Vendrassi think that?"

"Rumors have circulated, dear Argis," Cicero said. "Cicero has heard them, even in Dawnstar. And here, in the Imperial City, the tales of sweet Tamsyn's and dear Marcus' efforts to slay Alduin have lost nothing in the retelling."

"Fame has its price," Tamsyn frowned, wrinkling her tip-tilted nose. "Now it makes more sense why the Synod would contact me, especially if they've heard of my marriage to the Dragonborn. They're hoping to glean a few secrets from me to either confirm or refute the rumors."

"Do you still think the Thalmor are involved?" Argis asked.

"Yes," Tamsyn nodded. "I won't know for certain until I can determine how many Altmer are members of the Synod. Not that I think all Altmer are members of the Thalmor, but I'm not going to ignore the possibility, either."

Argis' brow wrinkled again, and he lifted an eyebrow. "Why would that make a difference?"

"Pretty Tamsyn was very clever in the carriage!" Cicero grinned. "She got the hated Thalmor Justiciar to admit only Altmer become Thalmor."

Understanding smoothed Argis' features. "I get it now. Even if there are, say, Imperial or Breton sympathizers, the ones we really need to worry about are the Altmer."

"For now at least," Tamsyn nodded. "I'd still like to know what a Justiciar was doing up in Bleaker's Way. That doesn't seem like a place rife with Talos-worshippers. Something isn't adding up there."

"What else is up that way?" Argis wondered.

"Cicero isn't sure," the little jester said. "It has been many, many years since he was in Cyrodiil."

Tamsyn closed her eyes and thought back to when she played the game, long ago in another life. Confined to a wheelchair in a nursing home, a kind young nurse had managed to bring in a console system and a couple of video games to an old woman who could no longer get around easily, but whose mind was still sharp. Tamsyn had played hundreds of hours of _Skyrim,_ but not nearly as many of _Oblivion._ Still, the memories were as vivid as the day they happened, and she called up the image of the map of Cyrodiil in her mind.

"There are a few caves in that area," she said slowly. "And the Shrine to Akatosh is just north of there. The ancients knew him as Auri-El." She concentrated harder. "There are two Ayleid ruins in that area: Anga and Sercen. We passed them both on the way down here, but they're set too far back from the road to be seen."

"What are Ayleid ruins?" Argis asked. "Are they like the ancient Nordic barrows back home?"

Tamsyn shook her head. "No, not really. They're more like the Dwemer ruins. Beautiful architecture combined with deadly traps and terrible monsters. They were made by the Heartland High Elves in the dawn of time, but their race died out by the end of the First Era."

Cicero gazed at her in wonder. "How does pretty Tamsyn know so much if she has never been in Cyrodiil before?"

The Breton girl chuckled. "I read books." Cicero knew her past, but Argis didn't, and for now, Tamsyn preferred that the fewer people who knew the truth, the better.

"So, they might have come from one of the ruins, then," Argis mused. "Looking for something maybe?"

"That is certainly possible," Cicero allowed. "Does the Arch-Mage need an escort tomorrow?" he asked now.

Tamsyn shook her head. "No," she decided. "It might look as though I expect trouble if you two are with me. I'd rather you keep your eyes and ears open in the City. If any more Thalmor show up, I'd like you to follow them – discreetly, of course – and find out if they're up to anything." She gave Cicero a stern look. "And I do _not_ want to hear that any of them have come up missing, understand?"

Cicero pouted, but promised to behave. "Pretty Tamsyn never lets Cicero have any fun!"

* * *

"Shall I brew another pot of coffee, my Thane?" Lydia asked.

Marcus stared into the fire. "No, Lydia. I've already had too much." He hated waiting, but there was little else he could do until Skjor or Aela sent word that they had brought Alesan back. Marcus looked around the room. Blaise was propped in the corner by the door. He had been watching the road until about an hour ago, when he had finally nodded off. It was now two hours before dawn, and he would have to wake and prepare for his work day soon. Sofie and Lucia had already drifted off, curled up together, wrapped in each other's arms for comfort on the settee by the fire.

Informing his other three children had been the worst. Blaise had been outraged and had wanted to charge back up to Jorrvaskr, and only Lydia had been able to restrain him, insisted he wouldn't be helping matters. Lucia had burst out crying, and Sofie looked devastated.

"What's going to happen to him, Papa?" his older daughter whispered.

"I don't know, sweetheart," he replied heavily. "Even if Skjor is able to find him and bring him back, we can't keep him here in the house. Someone is bound to find out and report it to the Jarl. The people of Skyrim don't like werewolves. Alesan wouldn't be any safer here than he would be out in the wilderness."

"Maybe they can keep him up at Jorrvaskr," Blaise suggested, fuming. "It's the least they can do after what they did to him!"

Marcus rubbed his eyes with one hand. "I'm inclined to agree with you, son," he said. "But for now all we can do is wait until Skjor brings him back."

"Couldn't you go out and look for him, Papa?" Lucia asked tearfully. Her face was blotchy and streaked with tears.

"I don't even know where to start looking, _chica_ ," he replied, gathering her in for a hug. "He could have gone anywhere when he escaped out the tunnel."

"Besides, Lu," Blaise added softly, "if Dad goes out to look for him and Skjor brings him back, we won't know where Dad's gone so we could let him know."

"Blaise is right, Lucia," Lydia murmured. "It's better to let Skjor start repaying his debt for what he's done by making him find Alesan and bring him back."

Now, three hours later and with the slightest hint of lightening in the darkness outside, Marcus wondered if maybe he shouldn't have gone after Alesan as soon as he realized what had been done to him.

 _You wouldn't have been able to catch him, Marcus,_ the Dragon God of Time pointed out. _A werewolf – even a juvenile one – is incredibly fast and powerful. You wouldn't have been able to keep up with him, even with your Whirlwind Sprint._

Marcus kept his thoughts to himself. They were too dark to be shared, even with the Chief of the Nine Divines.

 _Your son will come home, Dragonborn,_ Akatosh said. _And perhaps there is wisdom in the words of your older son. Alesan will be safe at Jorrvaskr until a cure can be found._

 _Is there a cure?_ Marcus thought sourly. _Even Kodlak wasn't sure._

 _Of course there's a cure,_ his inner dragon snorted. _And perhaps you might even be the one to find it. But it will take you on a path that leads away from me._

Marcus sat up straighter. "What do you mean, 'away from you'?" he said aloud, then glanced around to see if anyone else in the room had heard him. The children were still asleep, and Lydia had apparently disappeared into the privy at the back of the house.

There was a sound like a sigh in his mind. _Events are moving quickly, Dragonborn,_ Akatosh said. _Vampires are on the rise, and will not wait for you to find a cure for your son. I know that you will not rest until you are certain he is safe. A choice will soon loom before you, and you may be forced, for the sake of your son, to choose between the lesser of two evils. Depending on your choice, I may not be able to advise you. You will be on your own._

"What sort of choice?" Marcus murmured.

 _You will know it when it is presented to you,_ the god answered. _I will not interfere in that choice. And if we are unable to speak for a time, know that I understand your reasons, and will not think less of you for making it._

With that, the presence faded once more, and Marcus felt at once bereft and at peace. It was a moment before he realized there was a soft knocking on the door, and he leaped to the portal to open it. Aela stood there.

"Aela!" he exclaimed, looking up and down the street. "Where's Skjor? Where's Alesan?"

"Come with me," she said shortly, glancing behind him at the children who were crowding around. Hovering in the background was the Housecarl, Lydia. Aela had seen her on occasion at the Bannered Mare.

"Come with you _where?"_ Marcus demanded, frowning. "Is Alesan okay?"

"I'd rather not discuss it out in the street," Aela said stiffly before dropping her voice to a low pitch. "Or in front of the whelps," she added for his ears only. "Something's come up. Follow me." With that she turned and headed back up the street in the direction of Jorrvaskr.

Hesitating only for a moment, Marcus turned back to his family.

"Stay here," he said. "Lydia, keep them safe. I'll be back soon."

There were protests behind him, but he ignored them and followed Aela back to the mead hall of the Companions. She led him, not to the hall, but to the Underforge, and Marcus' hopes rose that his son was back, if not sound, then at least safe.

Once inside, Aela closed the door. The chamber inside was empty.

"Where are they?" Marcus demanded. "Where's my son? Where's Skjor?"

"Skjor hasn't come back," Aela said, frowning. "He's overdue. I tracked his scent to a place called Gallows Rock. And I also smelled the faint scent of your son there. Skjor must have gone in to get the boy, but the place is crawling with Silver Hand. I can't go in there alone." Her voice faltered slightly. "And Skjor shouldn't have. Not without back-up."

There was a sickening lurch in the pit of Marcus' stomach. "My son is dead?" he whispered harshly.

"No!" Aela hastened to assure him. "No, he's still alive. I couldn't have picked up his scent otherwise. But we don't have much time. If we're to rescue them both we need to act now."

"Then let's go," Marcus urged. "Why are we still standing here? Where is this Gallows Rock?"

"It's an old, abandoned Nord fortress on the western edge of Eastmarch Hold, where it joins the Pale," Aela explained. "It's set back up into the hills near the Dwemer ruin Raldbthar. It's at least six hours from here."

"Six hours?" Marcus exclaimed incredulously. "And yet you managed to track them there and come back in four?"

"I'm a werewolf, Dragonborn," Aela sniffed, some of her haughtiness returning. "I can run a lot faster than you. We can go there, but time has already passed. We might get there in six hours, but it may be too late."

"What are you suggesting, Aela?" Marcus asked suspiciously.

Aela hesitated again, as if she braced herself against his coming outburst. "I give you my beastblood. You become a werewolf like me. We can get there faster, and you'll be much more powerful, facing down the Silver Hand to rescue your son."

So this was the choice Akatosh had warned him about; the choice that would cut him off from that counseling voice inside his head. This was like having no choice at all! How could he become a werewolf to save his son, when there was no cure? What if he changed suddenly, in front of his children, or the Jarl, or the innocent people on the streets? If he died as a werewolf, his soul would never return to Akatosh; he would belong to Hircine, and be doomed to the Hunting Grounds, eternally on the chase, in his afterlife. He didn't want that. There had to be another way.

"What does the terrain look like in that area?" he asked.

"Why should that matter?" Aela countered.

"I'm asking because it's important, Aela," he said impatiently. "Just tell me!"

"Very hilly," she said. "There's not a lot of level ground, and what there is is overgrown with tall trees and rocky outcroppings. Why?"

So Odahviing would have no place to land, Marcus thought sourly. He could get there in minutes, instead of hours, if he could summon the great red dragon and fly there. Aela would still have to run; Odahviing would never consent to carrying her, and Marcus would have to either wait on her or take his chances negotiating the peaceful release of his son. Or not so peaceful, if the Silver Hand decided not to cooperate. Barging in would get Alesan killed, however, if they knew the boy was the one he was after. He didn't care what happened to Skjor – it was partly his fault Alesan was in this predicament in the first place.

Fuming privately, Marcus realized his options were few. He could either reject the beastblood and try to get there as fast as he could; maybe on horseback, assuming Sadie wouldn't panic at the scent of a wolf so close by. It would still take him hours. Or he could accept Aela's offer and become a werewolf; he would get there quicker, and maybe there was still a chance to rescue Alesan with a minimum of bloodshed. But there was no cure for the curse yet, and until there was, he and Alesan would remain as werewolves; at least he would be able to revert to human form, which was more than could be said for his son. Perhaps Tamsyn knew of a cure, but she wouldn't return for at least a fortnight, and he didn't want to remain cursed any longer than necessary.

"Time is wasting, Dragonborn," Aela urged. "You need to tell me what you want to do."

Akatosh had known this dilemma was coming, but he had given Marcus his blessing, no matter what he decided. He had left the choice to the Dragonborn. Alesan's eyes, as Marcus had last seen them, flashed through his mind. The look of sheer horror at what he had done cut Marcus to the quick. The begging and pleading for his father to fix his mistake for him, since he didn't know how to do it himself. How could he not do everything in his power to help his boy?

"Alright," he sighed, completely unhappy with himself. "Give me the beastblood, if it will help Alesan."

* * *

He had run for miles, it seemed, but he was barely winded. Aela was there, many yards in front of him; he could smell her, hear the thud of her pads against the ground, see the wind rippling the fur on her body as she ran. Hers was a particular scent not like any other. Though he was still wrapped up in the throes of the change, she had been there to guide him out of the tunnel into the early pre-dawn light and had proceeded to lead him in the direction of Gallows Rock.

At one point, near the White River, he had picked up a scent he knew right away. It was very faint now, but there could be no doubt it belonged to his younger son. Without thinking, he raised his head and howled triumphantly. Aela echoed his howl and led him on across the countryside.

The change had been traumatic. He felt the intangible presence of Akatosh ripped from his mind, leaving a raw, gaping, psychic wound that was filled, forcibly, by the presence of the Daedric Prince Hirsine himself.

 _At last!_ the Prince exulted. _I have achieved what my brother Princes could not. The Dragonborn is MINE!_

Marcus tried to fight him, but Hircine was too powerful. Every secret, innermost thought was explored, leaving him too mentally exhausted to put up much resistance. Even being possessed by dragons hadn't been this intrusive, and for the first time, Marcus realized just how powerful the Daedric Princes were.

His experiences with them had been limited. He had retrieved Mephala's Ebony Blade from Dragonsreach and removed it to keep the Prince from spreading her evil influence over the Jarl's children. He had lost the Blade at the Thalmor Embassy, when he had been forced to relinquish his equipment to Malborn to smuggle into the place and find out what they knew about the dragons returning. When he recovered his gear, the sword wasn't there, and Marcus still believed Malborn had taken it and put it someplace else, where the Khajiit cook had somehow found it and used it to kill Thalmor Ambassador Elenwen. The Blade, presumably, was now somewhere in the Summerset Isles, where the unfortunate Khajiit had been taken for "questioning."

He had found, in his travels, an iridescent, multi-faceted orb belonging to Meridia, who constantly harangued him to return it to her temple, which he had done while still possessed by the afore-mentioned dragons. But Meridia had never imposed her will on him or overshadowed him the way Hircine was doing now. This was nothing less than psychic rape, and Marcus squirmed mentally under the onslaught.

 _Interesting,_ Hircine mused now. _So this is the secret of Marcus Dragonborn. You are from this world, yet not from it at the same time._

Desperately Marcus tried to block his mind, but there was little he could do to stop the Lord of the Hunt.

 _Your world is filled with Hunters, Dragonborn,_ Hircine gloated. _There are always those who prey on the weak. Your world has brought new meaning and – if you will permit the irony of the word – dimension to the Hunt._

Marcus made a huge mental effort to shake off Hircine's grip on his mind. He tried to think of Alesan, but the Daedric Prince sent him images instead of Alesan's dead, skinned body hanging from a hook, which filled him with rage. He wanted to murder the entire enclave of Silver Hand for their atrocities.

 _Excellent!_ Hircine exulted. _You must kill them all. Spare no one._

Again, Marcus made an attempt to assert his more logical, reasoning self. He tried to think of Tamsyn, but Hircine perverted even this. He sent Marcus images of rutting with his wife while in wolf form, Tamsyn's face contorted with pain and betrayal. Instantly Marcus retreated.

 _Isn't that really more Sanguine's bailiwick?_ he challenged, mortified.

Hircine seemed to be amused. _There are certain areas where my Brother and I overlap,_ the Daedric Prince leered.

But eventually, Hircine seemed to tire of tormenting his newest recruit, and withdrew as Marcus and Aela approached Gallows Rock. It was now an hour past sunrise, and there were still long shadows on the ground as they crept closer.

Marcus wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or anxious. If this was what Alesan had been subjected to, Hircine had a lot to answer for. He just wasn't sure how he could make that happen, short of finding the cure for the curse.

Aela had reverted to human form, fully armored, and Marcus found he could now do the same. He wondered what had happened to his armor and weapons while he was in wolf form, but didn't think now was the time to explore that topic.

"You won't be able to do this again until you've rested," she told him quietly. "We'll have to take on the Silver Hand this way, but even so, you'll find your reflexes will be much quicker than normal. You'll be stronger, too. Just don't let them hit you with those silver weapons of theirs."

Marcus nodded and led the way through the gate.

The archers saw them before they got very far, and Aela quickly put one out of action with her arrows.

 _So much for negotiating peacefully,_ Marcus thought wryly. But the breeze drifted toward him the scent of fresh blood, and suddenly the lust was there. He wanted to kill. He wanted to tear apart everything that stood between him and his son. Alesan's scent was very strong here; he could smell it, even in human form.

Without thinking, he leaped toward the one bearing down on him with a silver greatsword, Alduin's Bane already clearing its scabbard. Before the man could bring the sword up for a strike, Marcus ran him through, grabbing his opponent's throat at the same time and crushing the man's larynx.

Not looking back, Marcus sought out his next opponent. Some part of his senses registered the first one was already dead, or soon would be.

There was one up at the top of the fort, in the tower. He could hear slight snoring, even from this distance. Quickly he leaped up the rude wooden stairs and made his way in, striking the woman down before she had a chance to wake. Part of his mind was horrified, and quailed, but it was suppressed by the overwhelming urge to hunt.

Aela was waiting for him by the main entrance; there were no other doors. Silently, he gestured her to follow and led the way in.

Slowly, methodically, they made their way through the fort. Kodlak had been correct about one thing: the silver weapons burned like fire when they hit. Marcus used nearly every Shout in his arsenal to even the odds against them, and they eventually found Alesan, still in wolf form, in a cage in one of the lower levels.

Shocked at first to see Aela and his father, Alesan whined and yipped, and Marcus realized that on some rudimentary, instinctual level, he could now understand his son.

" _Alpha…so sorry…"_ The juvenile werewolf's head was low, his tail tucked under. He was in a decidedly submissive posture. 'Alpha', Marcus knew, meant the dominant wolf in the pack. For Alesan, that was his father.

"It's alright, son," Marcus assured him. "I'll get you out of here, I promise. I'm just so relieved you're still alive!"

"We should find Skjor," Aela said urgently. "I don't see him here."

" _Men…took him…"_ Alesan whined.

"Where?" Aela demanded. "How long ago?"

The whelp slowly shook his head, the way a dog does when shaking off water. _"Don't know…down…don't know time…"_

"Just stay here for now, son," Marcus said. "You'll be safe enough. We'll find Skjor and come back for you."

Alesan whined again. _"Don't go…"_

"It's only for a little bit longer, son," Marcus soothed, reaching through the bars and stroking the whelp's head. Alesan closed his eyes, and his tail thumped once or twice. "I promise I'll be back for you, and we'll go home."

" _Home…"_ The whelp's tail thumped again.

Reluctantly, Marcus left his son in his cage and continued through the fort with Aela. They fought more Silver Hand, and Marcus became more and more disgusted with himself that he couldn't control the bloodlust within him. Not that the Silver Hand would have given him a chance to discuss things in a civilized manner. On more than one occasion they were rushed, and had to fight their way through. Above the scent and taste of blood, however, was the unmistakable taste of fear. The Silver Hand feared them, and the primal part of his mind celebrated, even while his more civilized mind was repulsed.

"Hold up, Dragonborn," Aela said as they prepared to descend another flight of stairs. "We're getting close, I can feel it," she said. "Be careful. Their leader is a tricky one. They call her 'Krev the Skinner.' I don't think I need to tell you why. Skjor's scent is strong here, but I can't…sense him…" She broke off, troubled.

"Let's finish this, then," Marcus growled. He opened the door.

The interior of the room had a large, central area raised a foot or so off the main floor. Flanked by pillars, a shaft of sunlight had found its way down here and illuminated the chamber, making it difficult to see anything in the shadows beyond the beam of bright light streaming in. Difficult, but not impossible. Marcus' enhanced senses immediately picked up the scent and sounds of at least half a dozen people in the room. There was also the overpowering stench of death, as evidenced by the scattered bones and viscera. A tanning rack was set up against one of the pillars, and a wolf hide was stretched across it; one of the Silver Hand was scraping it down with a skinning knife.

A sound of anguish ripped from Aela's throat, and Marcus saw why. Skjor's body lay just beyond the tanning frame at the edge of the sunlight. The Huntress leaped into the room, firing off shot after shot from her bow until three of the Silver Hand closed with her. She quickly dropped her bow and drew a sword and shield, Skyforge steel gleaming in the light.

Marcus found himself suddenly facing two burly opponents, while the last Silver Hand was pegging him with arrows from a distance.

He Shouted Marked for Death at them to weaken them enough to take them all on. After that, he lost himself in the fight. He dimly acknowledged two of the Silver Hand going down under his blades. He remembered Shouting his Fire Breath at the archer, who succumbed to the onslaught. He turned to see Aela down on one knee with the buffest female Nord he'd ever seen ready to deliver the killing blow. Sprinting, he caught her blade with his and with a supreme effort, twisted it away from Aela. This one must be Krev the Skinner, and hate filled Marcus' heart as he realized this woman would callously have skinned his son with no more regard for his youth than someone might have for a skeever that had invaded their home.

He struck again, but Krev blocked his blade. Circling him warily, she feinted with her sword to draw a reaction from him, but Marcus refused to fall for the lure. Krev resorted to taunting.

"So, the mighty Dragonborn has fallen from grace, has he?" she mocked. "Gone and become a beast now? What a tale this will make!"

"You won't be around to tell it," Marcus growled, fighting the urge to recoil in humiliation.

"No?" Krev inquired. "I suppose you think you can beat me? I'm not like those pathetic fools who served under me."

"Nice way to talk about the men and women who died under your watch," Marcus snarled.

"I have Stendarr's protection, Dragonborn," Krev dismissed, feinting again. "I have devoted my life to wiping out all abominations sent by the Daedric Princes. Most especially werewolves."

"Why particularly werewolves?" Marcus asked, bringing Alduin's Bane around to slice at her thigh, only to have it blocked by Krev's shield.

"Are you insane?" Krev gave a short bark of laughter, but there was no humor in it. "Or perhaps now that you _are_ one, you feel kinship with these monsters." She gestured casually to Aela and Skjor, but didn't relax her guard.

"Humor me," Marcus shot back. "Curiosity is a bad habit of mine."

Krev eyed him for a long moment, poised to strike. "Fine," she said. "My brother had everything going for him," she continued. "Two years ago he was rising in the ranks of the Stormcloaks. He had a beautiful woman betrothed to him. Sinding was my brother, but more than that, he was my twin. I never knew a time without him – until the night he fought the werewolf."

"So your brother died, and in return you're going to wipe them all out, is that it?" Marcus nodded. It was understandable. Just not where _his_ son was concerned.

"Died?!" Krev exclaimed, furious. "If _only_ it was that simple! My brother _became_ a werewolf! He didn't tell anyone, until the night he changed suddenly, and in bloodlust he killed his fiancé. The townspeople rose up against him, but he escaped into the night. I lost my brother that night!"

The rational part of Marcus' mind finally fought to the top. "But what if he could be cured?" he asked her.

Krev stopped suddenly. "There is no cure," she stated flatly. Her eyes narrowed. "And you're only delaying the inevitable. Let's finish this!"

"No, wait!" Marcus struggled against the bloodlust in him. "I'm serious. I was told there might be a cure. What if I found that cure? I might be able to help your brother."

The Nord woman lowered her blade. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"As a heart-attack," Marcus replied, forcing the point of his blade down as well. "Where is your brother now?"

"I don't know," Krev said. "This happened two years ago. He could be anywhere in Skyrim."

"I promise you, if I can find a cure, I can find your brother," Marcus vowed. "What do you say? Will you stop hunting werewolves if I do this for you?"

A puzzled frown crossed Krev's face. "I don't know…" she began hesitantly, but a growl from behind Marcus warned him too late that Aela had recovered.

"NO!" she shrieked. "That bitch killed Skjor!"

The red-headed Huntress flew past Marcus with her blade drawn and stabbed Krev through the heart. The armor-clad Nord woman choked, coughed up blood and sank to the ground, her eyes rolling back in her head.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Marcus stormed at Aela. "She was surrendering!"

"We don't take prisoners, Dragonborn!" Aela shot back scathingly. "These bastards are at war against our kind."

" _Your_ kind," Marcus ground out. "Leave me out of this feud! I just want my son back. Skjor knew what he was getting himself into when he came here. He could have come back and gotten us. Instead he chose to come in here alone, and he paid for that mistake with his life. No one forced him to do it."

"He was trying to save your son!" Aela shouted.

"That the two of you got into this mess in the first place!" Marcus thundered, and the stones around them shifted alarmingly as dust drifted down. "Alesan wouldn't even _be_ here if the two of you had used some common sense! If it weren't for your foolishness, Skjor might still be alive!"

"I—" Aela stopped, confusion in her eyes. Loyalty to her pack-mate and Shield-Brother was strong, but Marcus' unrelenting logic and indomitable force of will couldn't be denied. Stubbornly, she fired off one last parting shot before she turned to tend to Skjor's body. "Whether you like it or not, you _are_ one of my kind now. I will prepare to take Skjor's body home. You should see to your son. Take him to the Underforge and get Farkas to look after him. Ice-Brain should be able to handle that."

He couldn't see her face, but he smelled the salty scent of tears running down her face. Aela had submitted to her new Alpha male.

* * *

 _[Author's Note: I know I'm departing from canon with regard to the beginning of the Companion's quest line. Marcus is an unwilling convert, and an unwilling participant. He will do whatever it takes to find a cure, but it probably won't be the way we're used to reading the story. Up next, with Alesan safely ensconced in the Underforge, Marcus now has time to sign up for the Dawnguard, naively believing he'll be in charge of keeping Whiterun free of vampires. Tamsyn has her meeting with the Synod, leaving Argis and Cicero to their own devices in the Imperial City. They can't get into THAT much trouble, can they?]_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

It was a quiet trip home. They waited until dark, since Marcus felt they would attract less attention that way. Alesan communicated very little, and when he did it was in short, submissive barks and _whuffs_ of apology over and over again.

" _Fix me…please?"_ he whined, breaking his father's heart.

"I can't fix it right now, son," Marcus told him. "Kodlak's working on a cure, but he's not quite there yet. Maybe when your mother gets back, there might be something she can do."

He wasn't really sure how much his son could understand. Aela had filled him in quietly on what he could expect, now that he was a werewolf.

"Unless you want a fight on your hands, I would avoid going through town with the whelp as he is now. People will shun or attack him. Use the tunnel and get him into the Underforge, then go fetch Farkas and have him look after your boy. As for yourself," she continued, "you will be able to communicate in human speech while still in wolf form. I'm not sure why Alesan can't, unless it has something to do with him being stuck in wolf form."

She also told him that the beastblood would prevent him from sleeping soundly. "Wolves don't think about the future, and we don't dwell on the past," she explained. "We live in the now. 'Eyes on the prize, not the horizon.' You'll sleep, but don't be surprised if your dreams are filled with the hunt and the chase. I will leave you to decide how much to tell your wife."

Marcus sincerely hoped he would have this situation resolved _before_ Tamsyn returned home.

"One final thing," Aela advised, before he and Alesan left Gallows Rock. "As a werewolf, you are immune to diseases, like ataxia, bonebreak fever, and the vampire disease, _sanguinare vampiris._ You also won't be affected by any kind of paralysis spell thrown at you. But you may find yourself, as Vilkas and the old man do, fighting the bloodlust urge when it comes on you. At those times, you just want to kill something, and you're not particular who. I can't tell you how many times I've fought the urge to rip Belethor's throat out. At those times, I leave the city, go out into the wilds and let it run its course. If something gets in my way, they don't live long enough to regret it."

"And what if that something is an innocent human being, Aela?" Marcus rumbled in disapproval.

Aela gave him a steady look. "I'm a werewolf, Marcus. I eat what I kill. If you embraced this gift, you would do so, too. It helps to prolong the bloodlust. And there are certain perks you many find useful if you keep at it long enough."

Horrified, Marcus could only stare at her. "Perks? For butchering people?"

"Most of them are bandits or other criminals not worth worrying about," Aela shrugged callously. Marcus realized at that moment he would never convince Aela that Lycanthropy was anything but a gift, not a curse. "Lord Hircine rewards his favored few with certain abilities, such as healing faster, doing more damage, or summoning other wolfen creatures."

 _And I would grant those boons to you, if you follow me willingly, Dragonborn,_ Hircine whispered in his mind.

 _I don't want this 'gift'!_ Marcus threw back. _I never wanted it. I only did it to save my son!_

A low, evil chuckle told him Hircine was amused, not insulted. _Struggle all you wish, Dragonborn,_ Hircine gloated. _It makes the hunt that much sweeter._

 _Kynareth help me,_ Marcus prayed, keeping that thought, at least, to himself.

The trip back to Whiterun was uneventful. They left Gallows Rock as soon as the sun set and made it to the tunnel under the city wall a few hours later. Marcus had had to travel in human form, since it had not been a full day since his initial transformation.

Marcus told his son to wait there, in the Underforge, then went to find Farkas, whom he found in the common room.

"I thought you'd be asleep at this hour," Marcus said.

"I don't sleep much," Farkas admitted. "I get a few hours in, and that's good enough I guess. Been a long time since I slept really good. Kodlak filled my brother and me in on what Skjor and Aela did. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. That wasn't right, what they did to your son; leastwise, not without asking you first, or checking with the Harbinger."

Marcus felt his frozen heart thaw a little toward the genial giant. "Thanks, Farkas. I appreciate it."

"You need Kodlak? I think he's still up."

"No," Marcus said, shaking his head. "I actually came to ask you a favor, if you can."

"Sure," Farkas agreed. "I guess we owe you that much. Whaddya need?"

"I brought Alesan back. He's in the Underforge. I can't take him home in his current condition."

Many people often assumed that Farkas was not very bright, but he picked up on Marcus' unspoken question immediately.

"You want me to keep an eye on him? Bring him food and stuff?" he asked. "Sure, I can do that. Like I said. We kind of owe you after this. I'll go see him right now." So saying, the big Nord grabbed a basket and began tossing food and drink into it from the dining table.

"Thanks, Farkas," Marcus said sincerely. "I think I'll go talk to the Harbinger after all. There are a few questions I still have on my mind."

He found Kodlak in his study belowstairs, brooding over a tankard of mead.

"Ah, Dragonborn," the old man said when he saw Marcus. "I did not think I would see you pass through our doors again, all things considered."

Marcus sighed. "I said a lot of things in haste and in anger, Harbinger," he admitted. "And in fear, to be honest. I was terrified for my son."

Kodlak nodded. "I understand. Truly, I do. It may surprise you to know, but I think of all the Companions as my children." He paused, and the corner of his mouth twisted in a wry grin. "Well, except perhaps for Vignar and Eorlund. They are more like brothers than children to me. My point is that while the rest of the Companions share no blood with me, and while they often follow their own path, they still look up to me for guidance sometimes, and that makes me feel very…paternal towards them. They are my family."

Marcus acknowledged that made sense. "I wanted to let you in on something that happened yesterday," he said now. He went on to explain his decision to take the beastblood in order to save Alesan's life. "It wasn't a choice I made willingly or easily," he said. "And I understand quite a bit more now than I did before." He paused for a moment. "Does the Lord of the Hunt…speak to you? In your mind, I mean?"

Kodlak eyed him sharply. "Yes," the old man admitted. "Not often. Usually only to remind me how soon I will be joining him in the Hunting Grounds. Has he…?" The Harbinger tapped his own temple and raised a bushy white eyebrow. He didn't need to finish the question.

"Yeah," Marcus growled. "Seems he's over-the-moons ecstatic about claiming the Dragonborn's soul. That's the reason I came down here to talk to you. You mentioned you were working on a cure?"

"I am still researching it," Kodlak said. "And I believe I'm close to discovering one. It may have something to do with the Witches of Glenmoril who laid the curse upon us centuries ago. I will need more time to be certain I am on the right path."

"Let me know as soon as you find one," Marcus replied. "And if there's anything I can do to further your research, I'm more than willing to help."

"Thank you, Dragonborn," Kodlak said gratefully. "I am glad you have not given up on the Companions completely."

"You aren't responsible for what Aela and Skjor did behind your back," Marcus said, remembering that Skjor had paid the ultimate price for his foolishness. Did the Harbinger know? He wasn't sure. He knew Aela had gone ahead of Alesan and him to fetch help in bringing Skjor home.

"And now Skjor is gone," Kodlak said sadly. Well, that answered that question. "My heart will grieve for him at the proper time. For now, I thank you for your understanding, Dragonborn. Rest assured your son is safe here with us until a cure is found. Hopefully that will be sooner, rather than later."

"From your lips to the gods' ears," Marcus replied fervently.

Back at home, Lydia waited for him. "The children are asleep, Thane," she said. "We were so worried! We thought you would be back sooner than this."

"There was a complication, Lydia," he said, and filled her in on the details, leaving out the part where he had taken the beastblood and become a werewolf himself.

"You must be exhausted," she sympathized. "You should get some sleep. It will be hours yet before Blaise and Sofie have to get up."

"I am tired," Marcus admitted, but he dreaded the thought of sleeping. In sleep, he would be Hircine's plaything; a fate he wished to put off for as long as possible. "But I think I'll stay up for a little bit longer. You don't need to wait on me, though. Thanks for holding down the fort while I was gone."

"Of course, Thane," Lydia smiled. "You don't even need to say so. And before I forget, this came for you today." She handed him a letter.

"Who is this from?" he asked. There was nothing written on the outer parchment.

"I don't know, Thane," Lydia answered. "The courier just dropped it off. _After_ I persuaded him he'd better, of course."

Marcus chuckled. The couriers were tenacious, but also a bit unyielding. If a letter was addressed to a particular person, it was their duty to see that the missive made it into "your hands only." Lydia still fought the good fight on his behalf with the couriers attempting to deliver letters addressed to 'Marcus Dragonborn.'

"He _lives_ here," she would insist. "This is _his_ house. I'm _his_ Housecarl. You can trust me. Now give me the gods-damned letter!"

The letter was from Tamsyn, and went a long way towards easing his troubled mind.

" _My love,"_ she began, _"I miss you and the children terribly, and hope you're alright. I sent a letter to you from Bruma, and we're now in the Imperial City, so hopefully you'll get both letters, one right after the other._

" _A few things have happened since my last letter – which, to be fair, was pretty boring, except for my declarations of loving you and the children. We met up with some old friends along the way whom I'm sure you might remember from your party days in Solitude. Our conversations seemed so familiar I swear it was like she was reading my mind! I'm sure you're just as amused as I am._

" _They rode with us to the Imperial City, but had to part company with us there. You can imagine how sad we were. I'm off to see the Wizard tomorrow—"_ Marcus chuckled. No one but he would understand that one. _"—and I'm hoping for some positive results. I may do some shopping afterwards and see what old antiques I can find._

" _Give my love to the kids and to Lydia, and save a big chunk for yourself. I should be back within a fortnight. Love, Tamsyn."_

Marcus never ceased to be amazed at Tamsyn's gift for coded speech. The 'old friends' from his 'party days in Solitude' could be none other than the Thalmor. The part about reading her mind was disturbing, to say the least. And yes, he wasn't any more amused than his wife must have been. Still, he had to grin. Tamsyn hated shopping. She would just as soon leave it to someone else. If she was 'shopping' for anything, it would be lost magical knowledge; thus, the reference to 'antiques.' He hoped she would be careful. It bothered him slightly that one letter had gone astray, but judging from the one he had received, Tamsyn would have been very careful about putting anything sensitive in it without finding some way to put it in code.

Realizing there was nothing more to be done at this point, Marcus made up his mind to head out to Riften on the morrow to sign up at Fort Dawnguard. He decided to volunteer to protect Whiterun Hold from the threat of vampires; that would go a long way towards easing the minds of the townspeople who had come to depend on their Dragonborn to protect them. He had no illusions about his status here; it was well known that Jarl Balgruuf – and indeed everyone in town – considered their Hold 'special' because the Dragonborn made his home here.

 _I'll get Odahviing to take me there and home again,_ he decided. _I can be back before supper._

The only thing he really had to worry about right now was getting a good night's sleep. But as he settled down alone in the great bed upstairs, his mind immediately drifted into dreams that were all too real.

 _He was running, racing with the pack, chasing the prey over hill and dale, from forest to plain, from mountain to shore. Sometimes the prey escaped them, sometimes it was not so lucky, but always they followed the Huntsman because they must. He was weary but couldn't rest; he thirsted, but not for water. The taste of blood was in his mouth and the fever was high. Scents, clear and sharp, drifted on the wind towards him. Fresh prey…the heart beat in fear and panic…the lungs drew ragged breaths…he could smell the fear and the bloodlust was up. On and on and on again the Huntsman drove them. And they obeyed because they were His; he held them hostage, their souls bound to Him. Fall behind and you are left behind. Get left behind and you die. So on you run because you must…because there is nothing else but the Hunt._

* * *

Marcus awoke, bleary-eyed and exhausted, as the sun crept over the eastern horizon. Lydia was already up and moving around down in the kitchen, and he could hear Blaise getting up, preparing for his day in the room that until recently he shared with his brother.

"Dad!" Blaise called as he passed his son's door on the way downstairs to the privy. "Is Alesan back? Is he alright?"

Sofie poked her head out of her door to listen. She was still in her nightdress.

"You don't look very well, Papa," she commented. "Are _you_ alright?" Behind her, in the room she shared with her sister, Marcus could hear Lucia snoring away. She wouldn't get up for a couple of hours yet.

"I'm fine, Sofie," he told her with a ragged smile. "I just didn't sleep well last night. Alesan's fine for now. Come down to breakfast when you're ready and I'll fill you in."

Over eggs and bacon – and plenty of coffee for their Papa – Marcus let them know how things stood with Alesan.

"I don't know what more we can do unless your mother comes home or the Harbinger can find a cure," he finished. "I'm not sure how he'll react if you go to visit him, so you might want to clear it with Farkas first."

"You make it sound like you aren't going to be here, Papa," Sofie observed. Oh, she was smart, that one!

"I have something to take care of in Riften," he replied, "but I'm going to have Odahviing take me, so I should be home by supper."

"I wish I could fly on a dragon's back, Dad!" Blaise said. "It must be really amazing seeing all of Skyrim from up there!"

Marcus nodded. "It's impressive, I have to admit," he conceded. "But you can't really see _all_ of Skyrim at once. And the first time I went up with Odahviing I was scared to death that he'd do a barrel roll and dump me off."

"And now you trust him, right, Papa?" Sofie asked, eyes shining.

"Oh, no!" Marcus chuckled. "I wouldn't trust that scaly red lizard any further than I could pick him up and throw him!"

"But Odahviing is your friend!" his daughter protested.

"Odahviing is a _dragon_ ," Marcus finished firmly. "And it's in a dragon's nature to dominate. Never forget that. The only reason Odahviing comes when I call, and takes me where I want to go, is because my _thu'um,_ and my dominate will, is stronger than his. The moment I show any sign of weakness, he'll be gone."

An hour later his older children were off to their apprenticeships, and Lucia had finished breakfast while Marcus worked on his third cup of coffee.

"Lydia says you have to go away today," his youngest said, with only a hint of plaintiveness in her voice. He felt bad for her. Without her other siblings around, the only person Lucia could play with was Mila, the green-grocer's daughter. There was one other girl in town, Braith, who was closer to Sofie in age. But Braith and Lucia didn't get along – especially since her attempts to bully the younger girl had ended up disastrously for her.

"I do," Marcus told Lucia now, "but I don't have to leave just yet. I've thought of another song I could teach you, if you'd like."

"Yay!" the little girl cried. "I'll get my lute! I'll be right back Papa!"

For the next hour, he carefully played Vivaldi's _Guitar Concerto in D_ on his own lute, carefully correcting Lucia went her fingers went wrong. Unable to write music out, much less teach his daughter how to read it, this was his way of bringing some of the music he had loved from his old world into his new one.

"When I come back, I'll see how much you remember," he told her, smiling. Lucia nodded, but already she was frowning over her lute, working the fingerings once more.

"Where do you come up with all these songs, Thane?" Lydia marveled from her seat by the window where she was sharpening her sword. Almost from the first day she'd known the man, he had a knowledge of music no one had ever heard before.

"Oh, I used to play a lot when I was younger," he smiled evasively. "I'm glad to have someone to pass it along to."

Marcus kissed the top of Lucia's head and she beamed at him as he waved goodbye from the door. He walked down to the stable area, only because there was enough space to accommodate Odahviing's girth there.

For the sake of the horses at the stables, Marcus walked down to the crossroads before summoning his draconic cohort. The sound of the Shout echoed to the Throat of the World and back, and within ten minutes, the great red dragon appeared.

"You have summoned me, _Thuri Dovahkiin_ , and I have come," Odahviing rumbled in _Dovahzul_ , the language of the dragons, as Bjorlam wrestled to keep Gerduin under control. Even from this distance, the draft horse knew a predator when she smelled one.

"There's a fortress to the east of Riften, called Fort Dawnguard," Marcus replied in the same language, climbing up and settling himself between the spines of the great dragon's neck. He hadn't been idle the past year and a half. Between Tamsyn and Paarthurnax, he now had a fairly conversant grip on the dragon language. "It's somewhere in the Velothi Mountains, where they meet the Jeralls, along the East Road into Morrowind."

"I know the place, _Thuri,"_ Odahviing replied. "I have seen it from the skies, but never ventured close. The men there have great bows that pierce sharper than any arrow has a right to. I will set you down as close as I can, but the valley is narrow, with little room to maneuver in."

"We'll see what it looks like when we get there," Marcus said firmly.

The dragon wasn't wrong. It was a narrow valley, with peaks that rose up high on both sides. There didn't appear to be any way in except through a tunnel that opened into a tight, twisting canyon passage. On the eastern side lay a small lake, and it was here where the path widened a bit, allowing Odahviing to land.

"I'm not planning to be there that long," Marcus said. "But if you feel too _claustrophobic_ in here, go on and head top-side. I'll call you when I need you." He'd had to use the common tongue for such a foreign concept to the _dovah._

When the dragon gave him a quizzical look, cocking his head to one side, Marcus relented. "If it's too tight in this valley for you, you may leave."

"My thanks, _Thuri,"_ Odahviing rumbled. "I do not know what that word means, but I do not find the confines of this valley…comfortable."

As the dragon launched himself into the air once more, Marcus saw a form hiding in the bushes and called out.

"Who's there? What are you doing?" His hand lingered near his sword.

"I-I'm not doing anything! I swear!" the young man said. "You…you were _riding_ that dragon! Are you the Dragonborn?"

There was little point in denying it. "Yes, that's me," Marcus said, relaxing a bit. "Who are you?"

"I'm Agmear," the blonde man said. "Are you here to join the Dawnguard, too?"

"That was my intention," Marcus replied, smiling.

"Great!" Agmaer said, relaxing, though his responding smile trembled a bit. "Truth is I'm a little nervous. I've never done anything like this before. I hope you don't mind if I walk up with you?"

"Not at all," Marcus said warmly. "Come on. I take it that's it up there; the huge stone fortification on the hill?"

"I guess so," Agmaer answered. "At least, I don't see another building that could be it. Hey, listen," he said stopping suddenly. Marcus paused and looked back at the young man. It was clear he was embarrassed. "Don't tell Isran I was afraid to meet him by myself, please? Not the best first impression for a new vampire hunter, I guess."

"Not a word," Marcus assured the younger man. "So, if you don't mind my asking," he continued as they started off again, "what made you decide to join up?"

Agmaer shrugged. "I heard what was going on. The vampires, the Dawnguard, all of it. I wanted to help, so here I am. What about you?"

"Personal reasons, I guess," Marcus hedged. He wasn't about to divulge his plans against the Thalmor to just anyone. "A friend of mine got hurt really bad. That's all it really took for me. I've got kids to worry about, so I'll do what I can from my own Hold to fight the threat."

"From your own—" Agmaer broke off and stopped once more to stare at the Dragonborn. "I don't know if that's what Isran's looking for, though," the young man continued. "From what I heard, we're going to have to spend some time training up here before we'll be ready to fight vampires."

Marcus frowned. "I hadn't heard that," he mused. "Well, we won't know until we get up there and find out."

"I could be wrong," Agmaer said as they started up the hill again. "I mean, you're the Dragonborn, after all, right? You've probably killed lots of vampires, huh?"

"A few," Marcus admitted.

Agmaer smiled. "Well, there you go! I'm sure Isran will sign you right up." His smile faded a bit as he sighed, "Not sure he'll take me. I hope so." His face was one of a man who was at the end of his rope, with no place left to go. Marcus felt himself warming to his new companion.

As they made the final turn in the path and approached the towering stone edifice, Agmaer seemed to lose his nerve.

"That must be it…Fort Dawnguard." He gulped. "Wow, it's a lot bigger than I expected."

Bigger, certainly, than many other forts Marcus had seen in his time in Skyrim, but there weren't a lot of people around. The Orc, Durak, was practicing with a crossbow outside the walls. He nodded to them as they passed. At the main entrance, a man in his thirties greeted them.

"Well, I guess this is it," Agmaer breathed. "Wish me luck!" He ran up the steps past the guard and pulled open the great wooden door, disappearing inside.

The guard was studying him up and down. "New recruits, eh?" he guessed. "I'm Celann. Are you here to join the Dawnguard?" When Marcus nodded, Celann smiled. "Good. Isran will decide if you've got what it takes. Go on, he's right inside."

"Are you and Durak out there all there is to the Dawnguard?" Marcus asked. "Besides Isran, I mean."

Celann shrugged. "For the moment. Word's spreading, though, because here you are. I'll tell you," he added, in a confidential tone, "the only thing more surprising than hearing from Isran after all these years was hearing that he wanted my help. I immediately realized things must be pretty bad. Looks like I was right."

"You've worked with Isran before, then?" Marcus inquired. He'd never even heard of the man before Durak came to Whiterun, so he wanted to know more about just what he was getting himself into.

Celann was nodding. "I have," he affirmed. "There was a time, years ago, when we were both members of the Vigilants of Stendarr, and both equally dissatisfied with them."

"What was so bad about them?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong," Celann shrugged. "Their hearts are in the right place, of course. But Isran and I were never comfortable. We left together, but that partnership didn't last very long. I didn't agree with some of his methods."

This didn't sound promising at all. Marcus was having serious doubts that this had been the right thing to do. Still if this 'new breed of vampire', as Durak had coined the phrase, was bad enough to make even Akatosh sit up and take notice, he supposed he could do far worse than to join a team of vampire hunters to eradicate the threat. There was safety in numbers, after all.

Celann apparently took his silence for the concern it was. "Go on inside," he encouraged. "Isran will want to talk to you."

Inside Fort Dawnguard, Marcus saw Agmaer hovering near the doorway. Two men were arguing in the center of the great hall, a large, circular, two-story room with archways opposite the entrance and flanking either side. Through the archway to the right, Marcus could see stairs spiraling upward, presumably leading to the mezzanine that ran around the great hall. To the left came the sounds of fire crackling in a fireplace, a wash of warm air, and the smell of something roasting on a spit. Ahead, beyond the two men, was another fire burning cheerily in a room that appeared to be some kind of barracks. There was an unusual grate that ran in a ring around the central mosaic in the floor, and the unpleasant scent of fetid water coming from it made Marcus wrinkle his now overly-sensitive nose.

The two men who argued in the middle of the chamber were both tall and imposing. The Nord wore the robes of a Vigilant of Stendarr. The Redguard wore heavy leather armor similar to Durak's and Celann's. This one must be Isran.

"Why are you here, Tolan?" he demanded of the Nord now. "The Vigilants and I were finished long ago."

"You know why I'm here," Tolan explained, with a hint of exasperation in his tone. "The Vigilants are under attack everywhere. The vampires are much more dangerous than we believed!"

"And now you want to come running to safety with the Dawnguard, is that it?" Isran asked, his own tone just short of mocking. "I remember Keeper Carcette telling me repeatedly that Dawnguard is a crumbling ruin, not worth the expense and manpower to repair." He snorted in disgust. "And now you've stirred up the vampires against you, you come begging for my protection?"

Tolan's fists balled tightly, but he held himself in check. "Isran," he intoned desperately. "Carcette is dead. The Hall of the Vigilants… _everyone_ …they're _all dead._ You were right, we were wrong. Isn't that enough for you?"

To his credit, Isran's face fell. "Yes, well…I never wanted any of this to happen." He spread his hands, as if to make amends for his harsh words. "I tried to warn all of you…I am sorry, you know."

It was at this point that he seemed to notice the two men standing near the door. Recovering, he glared at them. "So who are you?" he demanded. "What do you want?"

"I'm Marcus of Whiterun," the Dragonborn replied, stepping lightly on Agmaer's foot to keep him from blurting out his identity too quickly. If Isran didn't know who he was, there was a better chance of being treated as just "one of the guys," without any special considerations. Marcus preferred it that way. Fortunately, Agmaer seemed to understand the code and said nothing. "I heard you were looking for vampire hunters," Marcus continued. "I can guard Whiterun Hold, if you need someone there."

"You heard right," Isran muttered. "I'm glad word's finally starting to get around. But that means it won't be long before the vampires start to take notice as well." He looked Marcus up and down, as if to assess his worth. "What I need, though, is someone out in the field, taking the fight to the damn vampires, while we're getting the fort back into shape…"

He turned to Tolan. "Tolan, tell him about…what was it? Dimhollow?"

The Vigilant nodded. "Yes, that's it. Dimhollow Crypt," he told Marcus. "Brother Adalvald was sure it held some long-lost vampire artifact of some kind. We didn't listen to him any more than we did Isran." He hung his head sadly. "He was at the Hall when it was attacked…" His voice trailed off, choked with emotion and unable to continue.

"That's good enough for me," Isran said. He fixed his steady gaze on Marcus. "Go see what the vampires were looking for in this Dimhollow Crypt," the Dawnguard leader ordered. "With any luck, they'll still be there."

"Wait a minute," Marcus began. "You mean right now?"

"I'll meet you at Dimhollow," Tolan offered. "It's the least I can do to avenge my fallen comrades."

"Tolan I don't think that's a good idea," Isran objected. "You Vigilants were never trained for—"

"I know what you think of us," Tolan said hotly. "You think we're soft, that we're cowards. You think our deaths proved our weakness. Stendarr grant that you do not have to face the same test and be found wanting," he finished angrily. "I'm _going_ to Dimhollow Crypt!" He turned swiftly to Marcus. "Perhaps I can be of some small assistance to you."

Tolan turned on his heel and left the Hall, still fuming. Isran let him go. It would take the Vigilant time to travel to Dimhollow. He counted on his newest recruit to catch up to him quickly enough. He now turned his attention to the other figure still hovering near the door.

"You there, boy," he called. "Stop skulking in the shadows and step up here. What's your name?"

Marcus had actually been about to run after Tolan, but hung back to see if Agmaer would be accepted or not. He felt the young man could use the moral support, at the very least.

"I'm, uh…my name is Agmaer, sir," the young man stammered.

"Do I look like a 'sir' to you?" Isran demanded harshly. "I'm not a soldier, and you're not joining the army!"

"Yes, si—uh, I mean, Isran," Agmaer said faintly.

Isran scowled. "Didn't I tell you to step forward?" When the blonde, young Nord did so, Isran looked him over and finally rumbled. "Hmm…farm boy, eh?" He didn't appear to expect an answer, because he immediately asked, "What's your weapon?"

Agmaer blinked. The only weapon he had was a small hand axe, more suitable for chopping up wood than a man, though only a fool would discount its effectiveness.

"Uh, my weapon?" he parroted. "I mostly use my pa's axe, when wolves are attacking the goats or something."

The look on Isran's face was priceless. He apparently wasn't sure whether to laugh in amusement or snort in disgust. He settled for a growl instead.

"'My pa's axe,'" he murmured. "Stendarr preserve us!" But he seemed to make up his mind about something, as he clapped his hand on the young man's shoulder and drew him toward one side of the room where several bales of hay had been piled. The Dawnguard leader picked up a crossbow and handed it to Agmaer, who fumbled it clumsily. "Don't worry," Isran told him. "I think we can make a Dawnguard out of you. Here, take this crossbow and let's see how you shoot."

As Isran began coaching Agmaer, the young man looked over his shoulder at Marcus, who smiled and gave him a 'thumbs-up' gesture. Unsure what that meant, Agmaer merely smiled back and returned his attention to the crossbow lesson. Marcus left to follow Tolan, certain that the young Nord was in capable hands. Isran seemed very gruff, but his concerns about the vampires were heartening. At least someone had taken notice and stepped up to the plate.

Marcus had every intention of checking out Dimhollow, but first he needed to head home and pick up supplies he didn't bring on this trip. Agmaer had been right about one thing: this wouldn't be a simple matter of guarding his own Hold. Dimhollow was located in the Pale, in the ridge of mountains that separated it from Hjaalmarch, and not that far from Mzinchaleft, which was one of the entry points into Blackreach, where many combined Imperial and Stormcloak forces were training in secret to fight in the final war against the Thalmor that Marcus had – with no insignificant maneuvering – managed to get both sides to agree to. If the vampires ever made it into Blackreach, the consequences could be disastrous.

Odahviing came much more quickly when he called this time, so the dragon must have lingered in the general vicinity. They made it back to Whiterun just as the sun slipped behind the western horizon, and Marcus briefed Lydia on his plans.

"I'll pack some things for you, Thane," she offered. An accomplished adventurer in her own right, she knew better than most the things he would need to take.

"If you're going up against vampires, I'll make sure you have plenty of cure disease potions," she promised.

He didn't tell her they wouldn't be needed. _Werewolves are immune to disease,_ Aela had told him.

After supper Marcus went up to Jorrvaskr to spend some time with Alesan. The juvenile werewolf was restless and brooding, but Farkas assured Marcus his son was no trouble. He seemed to enjoy being read to, and Marcus hoped that meant he could understand what was being said to him, even if he couldn't articulate back.

"I'm going to be gone for a couple of days," he told his son. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Vampires are becoming bolder, and I have to go stamp them out."

" _Rip their throats…"_ Alesan growled. _"Eat their hearts!"_

The civilized part of Marcus' mind recoiled from such a violent thought from his own son, but the primal part thrilled.

 _Eating the hearts of your prey makes you stronger,_ Hircine whispered insidiously. _There is no benefit from undead, however…unless you become more powerful. To begin with, it must be a live, beating heart._

Marcus tried to feel revolted, but the bloodlust in him wanted to feel that warm, pulsing, beating organ crush between his powerful jaws.

"Hey, Marcus," Farkas spoke quietly. "You okay? You don't look so good."

With an almost superhuman effort, Marcus got his breathing under control. "No, Farkas, it's okay. I'm alright."

"You sure?" the gentle giant asked. "Sometimes it's hard to ignore the bloodlust. Vilkas and I try, but it isn't always easy."

"I thought you and your brother liked being werewolves?" Marcus asked, glad for the opportunity to turn the attention away from himself.

"I guess it was alright at first," Farkas shrugged, squatting down next to Alesan and pulling the pup closer. "But the more 'Kas and I talked with Kodlak about it, the more my brother wanted to get cured. We haven't been werewolves all that long. Not as long as the old man, for sure. But when 'Kas found out the Companions were betrayed into becoming werewolves, it kinda lost its appeal for him. And I usually go along with my brother. He wanted the blood first, so I took it too. Now that he doesn't want it anymore, I guess I don't either."

"So if a cure is found, you'll take it?" Marcus surmised. It didn't surprise him, given that the two were twins.

"Yeah, probably," Farkas nodded. "Don't get me wrong," he grinned. "I don't mind being a wolf sometimes, but it has to do with honor and all that. If we were tricked into it, that doesn't sound honorable at all."

Marcus nodded in agreement. "Have you been a Companion long, Farkas?"

"Well, my brother and I grew up in Jorrvaskr. Our father Jergen raised us here since we were younger than Alesan. As soon as we were strong enough and old enough, and proved our honor, we were made Companions. Being brought into the Circle came later."

"Your father allowed this?"

"Oh, he was already gone by that time," Farkas said, rubbing Alesan's ruff. It seemed to have a soothing effect on the young werewolf. "Jergen left to fight in the Great War and he didn't come back, but the rest of the Companions made sure we were looked after."

Marcus realized he'd never heard Farkas talk quite so much before. The big man was usually very quiet and reserved, and seldom spoke. Aela discounted him by calling him 'Ice-Brain', and even Farkas, in the past, had said that most of the Companions felt that while he had the strength of Ysgramor himself, Vilkas had the brains.

 _He probably doesn't talk much for fear of being ridiculed,_ Marcus thought privately. _That's a shame. Not everyone can be brilliant, but everyone has something to say._

"Thanks for taking such good care of him Farkas," he said, getting up to leave. Alesan leaped to his feet and whined. "I promise I'll be back soon, son," he told his son. "You heard what happened to Adrianne, right?" When the juvenile _whuffed,_ Marcus continued, "I have to take care of the vampires so they can't hurt anyone else. When that's done, I'll do everything I can to help Kodlak find a cure. With any luck, we'll have you back to your old self before your mother gets back."

Heading back through town, Marcus paused outside the door of Breezehome. Lydia would have his gear packed and ready by now. He could wait until morning to head to Dimhollow, but that would mean sleeping tonight, and his dreams were more like nightmares.

On the other hand, vampires were more powerful at night, and there was every chance that Tolan hadn't arrived at the cave yet. He certainly didn't want to wander into a cave full of vampires alone. He'd done that once before, at Moldering Ruins, and while he'd been lucky, he had still known it was a very foolish thing to do. Uthgerd's death had proven the folly of entering a vampire's lair unprepared.

Grumbling in frustration, Marcus realized that his body was weary, even if his mind was reluctant to revisit those dreams. He hadn't slept in two days. No wonder Farkas and his brother had such dark-ringed eyes, and Aela kept hers hidden behind war paint!

He went inside and spent the rest of the evening leaving instructions for Lydia in the event he was gone longer than a day or two, and enjoying the company of his children. Restful sleep was denied him again that night, and Marcus woke up feeling surly and out-of-sorts. Keeping a rein on his temper, however, he bolted down a hurried breakfast, bid his children good-bye and left Whiterun to make his way north.

Odahviing was able to carry him to a cleared area just to the east of the Hall of the Vigilants, but Marcus could see from the air that little remained of the place. Tendrils of smoke still rose lazily into the clear morning air, testament to the horrific intensity of the conflagration. He jumped off Odahviing as soon as the dragon touched down and sent him on his way. He would have to walk from here, and most of it uphill into the mountains to the cave. Footprints led away from the Vigilant Hall, where he found bodies of Vigilants, vampires and death hounds, still smoldering in the ruins.

Marcus had seen a great deal of death during his time in Skyrim, but he never got used to the sight of a charred body, contorted in the agonies of a horrific death. For a moment, he allowed the wolfblood to take over, to distance himself from the scene.

 _Wasted meat,_ came the unbidden thought. _Spoiled by fire._

It wasn't Hircine, and he knew that he, personally, would never have thought such things. It had to be the wolf spirit inside him. Marcus turned his attention to the footprints and got down on his knees, placing a bare hand on one clearly-marked print. Even in the cold snow, he felt the faint warmth of the boot that had made the print. Leaning in close, he sniffed and realized it was Tolan's scent he smelled. The Vigilant was perhaps an hour ahead of him.

Getting to his feet, he slipped his gauntlet back on and followed the trail, his keen wolfsight picking out Tolan's footprints from other impressions in the snow. Those must have been made by the vampires who had retreated after destroying the Vigilant Hall, and indeed, when he scooped a handful of snow from one of those prints, there was a nauseating, musty, death-like odor that lingered. He threw the snow aside and brushed off his hands, continuing to track his associate.

The trail led up the north side of a ridge of hills that divided the Pale from Hjaalmarch. Further to the north lay Dawnstar, and if Marcus hadn't already sent Cicero with Tamsyn, he might have gone there first to recruit his Sworn Brother's assistance. As it was, there was no one he could have asked to accompany him. He would have to do this alone.

A torch lay on the ground outside Dimhollow Cave, sputtering out its last flames. There were many footprints here, Tolan's among them, and a lot of blood spattered on the rocks around the entrance. Some of that was Tolan's, also. Crouching, Marcus crept into the cave, down a short, twisting tunnel which opened into a larger cavern that had been hollowed out in some distance era. A stream ran through here, washing its way deeper into the cave system. Torches set around the chamber illuminated a large set of iron doors to his left, and some kind of gatehouse to the right. Between them were ancient sarcophagi and more modern wooden caskets. Stalactites and stalagmites had fused into irregular columns, blocking his view of the entire chamber, but also providing him cover from the current occupants.

At the far end of the cavern, two vampires were speaking. If Marcus hadn't taken the beastblood, he might have had trouble hearing them, but now their voices came through loud and clear.

"Typical, stupid Vigilants!" one vampire, the male, scoffed. "I would have thought we'd taught them a lesson at their Hall!"

"To come here alone," said the female, shaking her head. "Still, he put up a good fight. Those two idiots were no match for him, obviously." There was grudging admiration in her tone.

But her companion was less sympathetic. "That's just two less to have to share in the glory once Lokil finds what he's looking for here," he sneered. "He'd better hurry, too. I'm getting…hungry again."

Marcus had heard enough. Tolan's scent was strong here, and the two death hounds roaming near the door were sniffing bloody rags that clearly had once belonged to a Vigilant's tunic. Rage filled him, and before he realized what was happening, he felt the change come over him.

Bones stretched and snapped into a different configuration. Muscles screamed in protest as they swelled and covered a skeleton that grew, adding inches to Marcus' already-imposing six-foot-plus frame. Fur sprouted from everywhere, covering and assimilating the dragon bone armor. Fingernails extended into claws, and Marcus felt his mouth protrude and stretch, teeth lengthening and curving into fangs as his face became more wolfen. The entire process took less than a minute, and where the Dragonborn had stood there was now a powerful werewolf.

He howled and launched himself at the death hounds, who had already sensed something happening, even before the vampires heard a sound. The first death hound snapped at empty air as the preternatural reflexes of the werewolf took over. Marcus felt his own identity take a backseat as the wolf spirit took over. He ripped out the throat of the first death hound with his jaws and flung it against the wall of the cavern, where a loud _crack_ told him the beast's spine had been snapped. It lay still and did not move again.

The second death hound exuded a frosty aura that chilled the wolf to the bone, but it didn't stop him from lashing out with both front claws. Once…twice…thrice…and the shredded beast lay still.

Red energy hit him then, and he felt weakened. Turning, he saw the male vampire attempting to draw out his life force with a draining spell from twenty feet away. Two bounds closed the gap and a powerful swipe sent the undead slamming against the wall, stunned, but not dead.

The she had drawn a dagger and was draining him with one hand while dancing in close enough to attack with the other. The blade traced a line of fire down his side and he howled as the silver burned his blood. Savagely he threw her to the ground and tore her face apart. There was no satisfaction, however, as there was no beating heart to devour.

The male came at him again with draining spell in one hand and ice spikes in the other. One spike went through his head, between his eyes, and he roared his rage out, leaping after the vampire, who was smart enough this time to stay away from him. At least, until he put his foot wrong and tumbled into the stream. In triumph, the wolf fell upon him and tore him to pieces.

Pausing for a moment to catch his breath, the wolf returned to the doors, which were firmly closed. The logical part of his mind that was Marcus prompted him to examine the gatehouse, where a pull chain was found. Once activated, the doors opened and the wolf was able to continue.

The vampire and the skeletons in the next chamber fared no better than her companions in the outer cave. The wolf continued up the stairs and through the empty room beyond into another chamber that was clearly some kind of burial room. Gates closed off the side passages, but it was the noise of combat that attracted the wolf. Another vampire and a death hound were battling some draugr. The wolf wanted to leap right into the middle of it, but Marcus insisted they wait to see who remained. Besides, they were wounded; and while their strength was returning, and the werewolf's ability to regenerate was helpful, it wouldn't kill them to wait.

 _Our patience will be rewarded,_ Marcus reminded the wolf. Surprisingly, the wolf agreed.

After five minutes, it was clear the death hound was no match for the draugr, but by the same token, the draugr were no match for a vampire that could raise the dead and command them to attack. Soon, the only figure left standing was the vampire, and the last draugr she had raised.

 _Now?_ asked Wolf.

 _Now,_ Marcus agreed.

The ensuing battle was short and sweet, though Wolf still hoped to feast on his vanquished enemy's heart.

The next several minutes were spent fighting more vampires and death hounds, until finally, the wolf spirit was spent, and Marcus found himself returning to his human form. He paused a moment to rest, and to think about the emotions he'd felt that had forced his change into a werewolf. In many of the movies he'd seen in his old life, and the lore he had read in books, there had never been any love lost between vampires and werewolves. The two seemed to be hereditary enemies. That seemed to hold true here, as well. He still wasn't sure where all his gear had gone while he was a werewolf, and now realized he didn't care. He still had his armor and weapons, and that was all that mattered.

He headed up another flight of stairs into a chamber that appeared to overlook one of the previous caves he had come through. Ahead and to the right, past a small stream that tumbled over the edge of the precipice was an iron gate – closed, of course. But the lever to open it was on this side.

Beyond the gate Marcus heard the sounds of combat. He crouched and crept closer, and peeking through the portcullis he saw a male vampire fighting with one of the huge, giant frostbite spiders he had sometimes come across in the wild. The creature was injured, but putting up one hell of a fight. Finally, it killed the vampire by biting his head off, then crouched where it was, injured and oozing ichor.

Marcus drew his bow and nocked an arrow, aiming carefully through the gate. He let fly, and watched with irritation as the arrow _plinked_ off one of the vertical bars.

 _Really?_ he thought sourly.

Alerted, the spider shuffled to the gate and Marcus ducked back around the corner, waiting until it forgot about him. After a few moments, the eight-legged horror stumped away and Marcus crossed swiftly over to the lever and threw it.

Quickly nocking another arrow, Marcus crouched and waited for the spider to come into view before releasing. Already gravely wounded, the creature didn't stand a chance against an arrow made of ebony.

At the back of the chamber, past the carcasses of the spider and its headless vampire victim, there was a large wooden door. Marcus opened this and found himself on some kind of balcony overlooking a huge lake with an island in the middle of it. On the island was a pavilion of some kind, connected to the mainland by a stone bridge. Figures moved around the pavilion, and Marcus' keen eyes detected a skeleton and an armored figure; a thrall of some kind, in charmed service to the vampires, who unwittingly served as a food source for them as well.

Below the perimeter of the balcony, Marcus heard voices drifting upwards.

"I'll never tell you anything, monster!" a weak voice declared stubbornly. "My faith in my god is strong!"

"Do you know what, Vigilant?" a man's mocking voice replied, "I believe you. Go meet your god, if you're so set upon it, then!"

A gurgling sound followed, and a moment later, Marcus smelled fresh blood. Creeping closer to the edge of the balcony, he peered down to see another Vigilant whose throat gaped open, pouring out his life's blood on the stone floor of a mezzanine.

"Are you sure that was wise, Lokil?" said a woman, and Marcus smelled her before he saw her. She was right below him, leaning against the wall. The smell of death was strong. "He still might have told us something." She strolled closer and crouched down, dipping her fingers in the Vigilant's blood before bringing her hand to her mouth and licking it clean.

"He could tell us nothing more," Lokil insisted arrogantly. "We are so close to finding the answer here," he gloated. "And when we do, I can't wait to see the faces on Orthjolf and Vingalmo when they realize that I have done what they could not, and that Lord Harkon will favor _me_ over them!"

"I hope you will remember those who helped you," the woman said sourly as she followed him across the bridge.

"Of course, my dear," Lokil replied smoothly. "I always remember my _friends_ – as well as those who oppose me." There was no mistaking the warning in his voice. The female vampire subsided, though it was clear she wasn't happy.

So, whatever the vampires were looking for was over there in that pavilion somewhere. It didn't make sense. From what Marcus could see at this vantage point, the large, arched construction was unremarkable save for the fact that it existed at all down here in this subterranean chamber which had clearly never seen the light of day. Here and there were some kind of brazier-like pedestals, but they weren't lit. Other than that, there didn't appear to be anything of importance here. Maybe he was reading too much into the pavilion, and the real secret lay in the buildings on the other side of the lake, just visible beyond the torch-light.

But no, that didn't make sense, either. Lokil and his companions were still milling around the central pavilion. Whatever they were looking for, they seemed to believe they would find it there. There was a mystery here, to be sure, and if there was one thing Marcus simply couldn't resist, it was solving a mystery.

He moved quietly down the stairs, wishing he could extinguish the torches and hide in the shadows the way Brynjolf seemed to be able to do. But putting out the lights would call too much attention to him, so he tried to remain as silent as possible as he drew level with the mezzanine and slipped over to the Vigilant's body. A journal lying on the ground next to him revealed his identity to be Brother Adalvald – the same Brother Adalvald that Tolan had told Isran and him about. He pocketed the journal to give it to Isran later, and drew his bow once more, creeping over to the stairs that led down to the stone bridge. The shadows were thicker here, and it would be far easier to snipe the enemy from here than from up on the mezzanine.

The skeleton went down in one shot, and Marcus pulled back behind the stairs, waiting for an opportunity for a clear shot on the others. The thrall and the two vampires scurried around like ants in a disturbed hill, searching for the origin of the shot. The female took two shots to kill, and by then the thrall had found him, rushing him with his greataxe.

Marcus drew Alduin's Bane and blocked the blow only just in time. Lokil angled for a position to drain him, and Marcus was starting to think perhaps he should have held off 'going wolf' until now. The thrall spun with blinding speed and used the momentum to bring the axe around. It sliced across Marcus' arm, and he was grateful for the toughness of the dragonbone armor. The draining spell, however, was taking its toll, and he fired off a quick healing spell with one hand as he riposted with the other. The thrall, not expecting anyone to be able to move after a solid blow like that, was caught off guard, and the dragonbone blade laid his midsection open. He watched as his intestines spilled out of his abdomen, not even feeling the pain until it was too late, and he sank to the ground to bleed out.

Fed up with the vampire, Marcus voiced a full-throated Fire Breath at Lokil, immolating him. Shrieking, the vampire leaped over the railing of the bridge into the water, then floundered to the shore.

"Oh, no, you don't!" Marcus growled. Leaping after the undead, he met the vampire at the edge of the water and laid into him with Alduin's Bane until at last, finally, the unnatural light went out of Lokil's eyes.

Dragging himself back up to the stone bridge, breathing hard, Marcus dug into his pack for several restorative potions. He felt as weak as a damned kitten, and for the first time was grateful the beastblood prevented him from catching the vampiric disease. As much as he had been drained today, there was no question in his mind that would have happened.

 _That's all I'd need,_ he thought morosely. _To become a vampiric werewolf Dragonborn._

When he felt rested enough to continue, Marcus made his way out to the pavilion. "Now," he mused, "just what were you morons looking for out here?"

Now that he was here, he could see more clearly the layout he couldn't see from above. Concentric grooves in the floor, intersected with radial troughs from the center pedestal out to the edge, indicated the braziers set on them were meant to move. However, when he shoved against one it didn't budge as much as an inch.

"Something's locked you all in," he murmured slowly aloud. Thinking out loud was one of the traits that had amused and irritated his first wife in his old life.

"Honestly, honey!" Lynne had scolded him on more than one occasion. "Can't you think without opening your mouth?"

Tamsyn never seemed to mind; in fact, she often joined him in his vocal cogitations. "Two minds can solve problems one mind alone can't," she would say.

Now he examined the center pedestal. This seemed to be the key to unlocking the braziers. It was simple and unadorned; a five-sided column of stone set in the floor with a carved cabochoned stone, painted or stained red, embedded in the top as some sort of button.

"Well, why not?" he grinned, and smacked his hand down on top of it.

Searing pain lanced through him, bringing him to his knees. An iron spike a foot long shot out of the column, piercing his hand. In agony, Marcus hung there, unable to remove his hand, blood flowing over the top of the column and down its sides.

"Christ!" he gritted out. And indeed, in that instant, he knew precisely what Jesus must have felt on the cross. After a moment, the spike retreated, and Marcus could see no sign of it ever having pierced through the stone.

Hurriedly he pressed a healing spell into his hand, and realized with some amazement that some of the grooves in the floor were now lit with purple fire. Some of the braziers also danced with the same purple flames that illuminated without burning.

With the pain in his hand lessened now, Marcus examined the braziers. Some stood apart from the flames; others were immersed, or stood at the edges of the light. Tentatively he pushed at one brazier, and it slid easily away from the flames. The brazier went dark. Cautiously, he went over and pushed it back where it had been; it lit up.

Marcus looked at the floor. He tried pushing the brazier along the concentric rings, but it wouldn't move.

"Okay," he said slowly, "so only back and forth along the axis grooves. Got it."

After several attempts with the other braziers, Marcus finally found the pattern of moving each one to the edge of the purple flames to allow it to light up and continue along its concentric track. When the last brazier was shoved into place, the floor rumbled beneath his feet.

"Holy crap!" he exclaimed, leaping for the edge of the pavilion near the railing. Turning back, he watched as one by one, the 'rings' of the floor dropped down into steps, like an arena, revealing that which had been hidden beneath them for centuries. It was, for lack of a better term, a kind of stone monolith, and Marcus approached it cautiously. This could be a receptacle for a powerful artifact, or it could be a weapon of some kind. He walked around it carefully, sword at the ready, but other than being a larger version of the pedestal which rested on its top, there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary about it. Except for a switch on one side, near a corner, there were no other features on the monolith.

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves – he'd already been pierced once, thank you very much – Marcus pressed the switch and jumped back. Two adjacent sides of the stone slid down and disappeared into the floor.

Whatever he expected inside, it certainly wasn't a girl. She stood immobile for several heartbeats, eyes closed, before gasping and slumping to the ground. Her dark hair spilled forward in front of the braids she wore crowning her head. Marcus stepped forward to catch her, but she gathered herself and stood, opening her eyes and staring around. They glowed with an unholy reddish light.

"Unh…" she moaned softly, and her voice was low and pleasant. "Where is…" she broke off, catching sight of Marcus. Immediately she stiffened and grew cautious. "Who sent you here?"

Every instinct in Marcus – his spirit wolf, at least – screamed at him to kill her right then and there. She was a vampire! Forcing himself to remain calm, however, Marcus attempted to look at the situation logically. This was what Lokil had been looking for, though he hadn't known it. _Why_ had they been looking for her? Who was she?

"A man named Isran sent me here," Marcus said now, eyes never leaving her. Gods, she looked so young! She couldn't _really_ be a vampire, could she? She looked not much older than Sofie!

"I don't know who that is," the girl said. "Is he…like me?"

Like her. A vampire. Marcus still couldn't believe it.

"Are you a…" he couldn't finish the question. Saying it would just make it true, and he didn't want this to be true.

"A vampire, yes," the girl said drily.

"The Dawnguard would want me to kill you," he blurted.

This seemed to amuse her more than it alarmed her. She didn't ask who the Dawnguard was; it seemed she knew.

"Well, I'm hoping you'll show a little more restraint than that," she mocked softly. "Look, if you kill me, you've killed one vampire. But if someone's after me, doesn't it make more sense to find out who they are and what they want? By the way," she continued in an off-hand manner. "I'm Serana. Nice to meet you." She didn't offer a hand to shake, and Marcus was certain he wouldn't have taken it if she had.

"Marcus, of Whiterun," he replied. He eyed her suspiciously. "Why were you locked in there?"

"That's…a long story," Serana admitted hesitantly. "And, no offense, but I'd rather not go into it now. It's not that I don't—" She broke off again, and it was obvious to Marcus what she had been about to say; it was equally obvious that she _didn't_ trust him. "Look, I need to get home to my family, so I can figure out what's going on."

Family. Did vampires even _have_ families? Clearly Serana hadn't been born a vampire; that would have been impossible. But it also presented the distinct possibility that her family was long since dead.

"How long have you been sealed away in there?" he asked her now.

Serana frowned, troubled. "I'm…not sure," she said finally. "It seems like it was a long time. Longer than we planned, at any rate," she ended lamely. "Who is Skyrim's High King?"

Marcus gave a snort. "That's actually a matter of debate right now." In point of fact, neither Elisif nor Ulfric had yet given up their claim to the throne. Marcus and Tamsyn still held out hope for a joint rulership, but the relationship between the two was still in its early stages.

"Oh, good," smirked Serana, "a war of succession. Nice to know the world didn't get boring while I was away." There was more than a hint of sarcasm in her tone. "Who are the contenders?"

"About half of Skyrim wants to see Ulfric Stormcloak as High King, while the Empire favors Elisif the Fair," Marcus told her.

"Empire?" Serana asked puzzled. "What…Empire?"

Marcus blinked. There had been an Empire in Tamriel since the First Age. Serana _couldn't_ be that old, could she?

" _The_ Empire," he said, more confused than ever. "In Cyrodiil?"

"Cyrodiil is the seat of an Empire now?" Serana gasped, wide-eyed. "I must have been gone longer than I thought!" She grew anxious, and shifted nervously. "Please, you have to help me get home! I need to find out what's going on!"

Several thoughts crossed Marcus' mind at that point. The first was that while this girl in front of him looked to be no older than nineteen or twenty, she was clearly several thousand years old, if anything she had said so far was true. Second, that she could have had no reason to lie to him. Even Lokil didn't know what he would find here. Either he had been sent here by someone named Lord Harkon, or was following up on what Brother Adalvard and the Vigilants had been investigating. In either case he had had very little other information. Third, that Serana obviously knew far more than she was telling him, though he couldn't fault her for not confiding in a complete stranger. Lastly, he was struck by the knowledge that even though Serana could have attacked him at any time, she had chosen to talk first and try to get answers to her questions. The wolf part of him warned that if she had indeed been locked away for all that time, she would be powerfully hungry right now.

Still, she must have been terrified, waking up in a strange place to a stranger's face, and yet she had kept her composure. It was only now, with the realization of the time that had passed, that she was exhibiting all the traits of a scared teen-ager who just wanted to go home. Even if that meant, as she must have suspected, that all the people she knew and loved were long since dead and gone. Marcus' paternal instincts kicked in full force and he smiled.

"I'll help you get home," he assured her. "Just tell me where you live—" He only just kept himself from using the past tense.

Serana stepped out of the chamber completely, now that she was assured she wouldn't be killed outright. "My family had a castle on an island off the northwestern coast of Skyrim, where it borders High Rock," she said. "I would guess they still live there."

Marcus stared at her, distracted. Strapped to her back was a familiar cylindrical column of carved ivory. He knew that shape all too well, owning one himself.

"Is that an Elder Scroll?" he asked incredulously.

Immediately, Serana stiffened defensively. "Yes," she said flatly. "And it's mine." There was finality in her tone.

Marcus put up his hands in reassurance. "I wasn't going to take it," he told her. "After all, I've got one myself." He smirked inwardly at the amazement in her eyes. "Why were you buried with an Elder Scroll?" he couldn't help asking.

"I'd…rather not get into that now," Serana prevaricated. "Please understand, I just…don't know who I can trust at this point. Once we get back to the castle I'll have a better idea of where we all stand. Depending on who's around, I should be safe enough."

"'Depending who's around'?" Marcus echoed. "Someone you don't want to see?" She should be safe enough, after all these centuries, he felt. He still wasn't sure how to break the news to her that her family was probably all dead.

"My father," Serana said sourly. "We…didn't get along." She rolled her eyes and gave an exclamation of self-loathing. "Ugh! It sounds so cliché when you say it like that! 'Little girl who doesn't get along with her father.' Heard that story a hundred times."

Marcus digested this information. Serana seemed very confident that her family was still around. This meant either she refused to accept reality – and so far she seemed too practical for that – or there was another, more sinister reason: that her family, or at least her father, were vampires. Walking into a nest of them had not been part of the plan when Isran had sent him to Dimhollow Crypt. But Isran couldn't have foreseen this. Part of him wanted to take Serana back to Isran to decide what to do from here. But it was a long way back to Fort Dawnguard, and if Serana refused to accompany him, he didn't think he could force her.

No. The only thing he could do at this point was to take her where she wanted to go. If Isran didn't like it, he should have come here himself. But if the Dawnguard leader _had_ been the one to come here, Marcus had no doubt that Serana would have been killed the moment she stepped out of her tomb. He made up his mind to make an executive decision.

"Alright, let's get out of here, then," he smiled again. "Any idea which way is the exit?" He supposed they could have backtracked, but Serana might have become upset at the sight of so many of her kind ripped apart by him.

Serana looked uncertain. "I was kind of hoping _you_ knew," she said, shrugging helplessly. "Things look quite a bit different now from when I was…well, you know."

"Alright," Marcus said equably. "Let me try something here." He hadn't been married to Tamsyn for a year and a half for nothing, after all. While he would never be as good at magic as his wife, he'd still picked up a thing or two.

Concentrating on finding an exit, he summoned the reserve of magicka he held deep inside. It seldom every got used for anything but healing, or a burst of fire or frost in the heat of battle to give him an edge, but now he focused on that purplish-black tendril of magic that would point the way out. It roiled away from him and across a second stone bridge he hadn't seen in the darkness on the other side of the pavilion.

"Interesting," Serana commented. "You're a mage as well as a warrior, then?"

Marcus chuckled good-naturedly, forgetting for the moment that she was a blood-sucking vampire. "No," he said. "I just dabble. I know a couple of spells. My wife is the real professional at this."

"Oh?" Serana blinked her glowing red eyes. "You're married?"

"Yeah, eighteen months," he answered, following the misty trail down the steps that led to the bridge. "We've got an adopted daughter about your age."

Serana snorted. "I rather doubt _that,_ " she remarked drily. "Unless she's a vampire, that is."

Just like that, Marcus' good mood evaporated.

"No," he said shortly. "She's not. I forgot for a moment. Come on, the exit is this way."

He started across the bridge, missing the pained look that flitted across Serana's face.

They were almost across when a loud rumble and roaring shook the ground, and Marcus drew his sword reflexively. On the other side of the cavern, near the buildings set back into the sides of the caves, two gigantic stone gargoyles suddenly burst into life.

"Where did _you_ come from?" Serana cried, bringing a reddish glow into one hand and gesturing with the other toward a skeleton lying on the ground nearby. The skeleton glowed and began to rise, along with the hairs on the back of Marcus' head. He'd seen necromancy at work before and knew nothing good could come from it.

"Did you summon those?" he called back to the vampire girl, pointing at the gargoyles closing in.

"No!" she exclaimed. "They're sentinels, set here to guard something. Probably me! They'll kill me just as quickly as they would you!" She shot one of the advancing gargoyles with a bolt of ice as the skeleton engaged the other one further away.

Still not convinced, Marcus concentrated on killing the brutish creature and – after the first hit – steering clear of its deadly claws that weakened him and drained his strength.

Several minutes and two more skeletons later, Marcus and Serana stood amid the rubble of the gargoyles. Breathing hard, Marcus glared at Serana over the rim of the healing potion in his hand.

"You're sure you didn't summon them?" he demanded.

"I promise you I didn't!" Serana said miserably. "I didn't know they would be here. They weren't here when mo—when I was locked away. Please, you have to believe me!"

"Do you think there will be any more of them?" Marcus asked, a bit softer in response to her obvious distress.

"I don't know," the vampire girl said, hanging her head. "But let's not stick around to find out, okay? I just want to go home!"

Nodding, but still not entirely satisfied, Marcus led the way up the stairs with Serana and her third skeleton thrall trailing behind.

The balcony above led them into another chamber with draugr sarcophagi and a closed gate on a landing up a short flight of steps to their left. Ahead on another landing was a lever, and Marcus took the steps two at a time to throw it.

The draugr burst from their tombs as Marcus expected they would, and he Shouted one into a corner with Unrelenting Force to give him time to deal with the other, stronger Deathlord. Serana used her draining and ice spells with practiced efficiency, for all that she looked so young, and had been locked away for so long.

"I still remember how to do this!" she smiled grimly. Her skeleton went down but without breaking stride she raised one of the draugr corpses and sent it after the one in the corner.

The Deathlord used its Unrelenting Force against Marcus, and though it was powerful, and shook him, he didn't lose his footing. He was getting stronger and more resistant to it, he knew. Serana, however, was behind him, and wailed as the Shout sent her flying across the chamber.

Unable to check on her, Marcus struck again and again with Alduin's Bane, the great dragonbone sword draining the Deathlord's health with each successful hit. While the powerful draugr parried several attacks and gave as good as he got, Marcus soon saw an opening in its defense and slipped in under its guard, skewering it. Blue fire crackled as its soul entered one of the gems in Marcus' belt pouch. The raised draugr had taken out the one Marcus had blown into the corner, and was now retreating down the steps to help Serana fight a skeleton that had come out of nowhere when it heard the commotion of combat. A minute later, and all was silent once more. Serana was looking at him in wonder.

"That thing you did...that – that _shouting,"_ she breathed. "What _was_ that?"

"It's just something I can do," he said. He really didn't want to get into all that with her right now. "Maybe I'll tell you a bit more later. Let's just get out of here."

"Fine with me," she said stiffly, and he knew she was affronted. Well, she hadn't exactly been forthcoming with explanations on her part, either, he thought sourly.

The next chamber was some sort of indoor arena. They paused at the top, looking down and around into the theatre. From across the room, Marcus heard faint, rhythmic chanting.

"I don't believe it!" he murmured. "A Word Wall! Down here!"

"A what?" Serana echoed. She put out a hand to stop him from moving further. "Marcus, wait! Look there!"

He glanced around the lower terraces and saw now what he had missed earlier. There were several armored skeletons and another Deathlord seated at the cardinal points on thrones. The closest one had its back to them.

"Stay here," he whispered. "I'm going to take them out quietly."

"Alright," she nodded, dubious. "But if you get into trouble, I'm not just sitting here. I'm counting on you to help me get home, and I'd rather have you in one piece for that."

And once more, Marcus almost forgot she was a vampire. Except that her eyes glowed orangey-red, and when she spoke he could just see the tips of her fangs. Blowing out a breath of exasperation, he turned and crept down the left side of the stone benches to get a better angle on the one closest to them.

It all went fairly well, until the Deathlord caught sight of him as he worked his way over to finish off a third skeleton. Once again Marcus got into a Shouting match, and felt himself weaken with the Deathlord's _thu'um._ This surprised him, as most seemed to know only Unrelenting Force and weren't afraid to use it.

Serana pitched in with her draining spell and ice spikes, and she raised another skeleton to join in when it looked like the Deathlord was getting the upper hand. Finally, it was quiet once more, except for the chanting of the Word Wall.

"Do you…hear that?" Serana asked.

Immediately, Marcus was on his guard. "Hear what?" he countered, sword ready for another attack.

"That chanting noise," Serana said. "I think it's coming from that wall over there."

Marcus blinked. "You can hear that?" he queried.

"Well, yeah, can't you?" the vampire girl replied, puzzled.

"I've always been able to hear it," Marcus said, slowly. _Well, at least since I came to Tamriel._ "No one else I know ever has, though."

"Interesting," Serana mused, stepping over to the Wall. "What are these strange scratches here?" she asked.

"Dovahzul," Marcus answered. "It's the ancient language of the dragons."

"Can you read it?"

"Hmm…" he frowned. "Tamsyn could, if she were here," he said. "I'm not as familiar with the written form. I only recognize one word here." He stepped closer and pointed as the energy streamed forth. _"Gaan,"_ Marcus continued. "It means 'stamina'."

"By the Blood of my Ancestors!" Serana breathed. "Did you see that energy? It came out and sank right into you!" She backed away from Marcus in apprehension. "What are you?"

Marcus sighed. He might as well tell her. She would find out anyway soon enough. "I'm Dragonborn," he told her tiredly. "According to Nord legends—"

"The Dragonborn is said to have the body of a mortal, but the soul and blood of a dragon!" Serana whispered. "I didn't know they still existed!"

"I'm the only one I know of," Marcus said. "How is it that you could see the energy and hear the chanting? No one else can."

"I don't know," Serana frowned. "Maybe it's because I'm a vampire? I'm not really living. I'm sort of in between life and death. The chanting – even if I couldn't understand it – seemed to have come from beyond the grave. Maybe it's from the souls of all the Dragonborn that have passed. Maybe they gifted that energy to you."

The thought stopped Marcus in his tracks. It was the clearest explanation he had heard yet. Even the Greybeards had not been able to explain it to him, and he had been up at High Hrothgar several times since defeating Alduin.

Turning back from the Wall, he gave the vampire girl a genuine smile of gratitude. "Thank you, Serana," he told her kindly. "That makes a lot of sense to me. No one has ever been able to put it into words like that before. Come on, I think we're almost out. Let's go."

"Did you want the treasure from that chest over there?" she asked, pointing.

"Of course," he grinned, opening the chest and removing the gold and gems. The few weapons and pieces of armor were nothing remarkable, and he had no desire to lug them back to civilization to sell. "Being a Dragonborn doesn't come with a steady paycheck."

"Well, I don't know what a 'paycheck' is, but you did say you had a wife and daughter to support."

"I have four kids, actually," he told her as they made their way up a flight of steps that revealed daylight at the end. "All adopted, and all dearly loved." His heart sank once more as he thought of Alesan.

 _I'll figure this out, son, I promise,_ he prayed silently. _As soon as I take Serana home, I'll see what the Harbinger has found out._

Of course, he knew he would have to report all of this to Isran, and that meant traveling back to Fort Dawnguard. The leader of the vampire hunters wouldn't be pleased at all to know he had let one go, but that was just too bad. Isran wasn't here, and Marcus couldn't bring himself to kill Serana in cold blood – even if she _was_ a vampire. She had offered no harm to him, and in fact had helped him a great deal already, even on such short acquaintance.

 _She just wants to get home,_ he thought. _If Sofie was lost a long way from home, I would want some kind person to help her as I'm helping Serana._

Insidiously, however, another thought occurred to him. He wasn't sure if it came from his generally suspicious nature, from his spirit wolf, or from Hircine himself.

 _Vampires charm people to lull them into a false sense of security. They make them thralls who would willingly give their lives to protect their vampire lords. You're helping her because she's charmed you into wanting to do so._

Guiltily, he threw a glance at Serana as they emerged from the cave into the daylight beyond. It was late afternoon, and the shadows were already lengthening.

"Oh!" Serana sighed happily. "It feels so good to…to _breathe_ again!" She had raised the hood on the back of her leather tunic to shade her face. "But could we get out of the sun? It's not so good for my…complexion, you know."

"It's at least an hour from here to Dawnstar, where we can catch a ferry," Marcus explained, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. "It's practically a straight shot to the northeast of here, on the coast."

"Well, let's get going, then!" Serana smiled. "It'll be good to be home again…I guess."

* * *

"I'm not sure Harlaug, the ferryman, will take us at night," Marcus said as they entered the village limits. "We can ask, if he's there. If he won't, we'll have to wait until morning."

They had made good time on the way to Dawnstar, with only a few wolves and an occasional frostbite spider to bother them. The sun had set by the time they reached the capital of the Pale. Without stopping at the Windpeak, Marcus led the way around the bay to the jetty where Harlaug sat with his dinghy.

"Ah! Dragonborn!" Harlaug greeted him. "On your way to Solitude or Windhelm? Can I give you a lift?"

Marcus had used Harlaug's services many times in the past, so it was no surprise to him that the ferryman would assume he'd be headed to one place or the other.

"Actually, Harlaug, I have a special request," he smiled. "I promised this young lady I would take her home. Her family lives on an island off the coast of Haafingar near the border of High Rock." Serana had pointed it out to him on his map on their way up to Dawnstar.

"The ruined castle?" Harlaug exclaimed, eyebrows leaping into his hairline. "Don't you know that place is cursed? Even seasoned sailors steer far around that place!"

Marcus glanced at Serana, whose brow was knit with worry. This didn't sound promising. Perhaps after all this time her family was gone, and her home was nothing more than a tumbled-down ruin.

"Nevertheless," Marcus insisted bravely. "That's where we need to go. Will you take us?"

Harlaug hesitated. It was clear he didn't want to go anywhere near the place, but his long-standing relationship with the Dragonborn would be in jeopardy if he refused.

"I'll take you as far as I can," he said finally. "But I'm not hanging around, and it's gonna cost you extra."

"That's fine," Marcus said. He knew he could get a ride home from there on Odahviing. He almost choked, however, when Harlaug demanded five hundred septims as his fare.

"That's a lot of money, Harlaug!" he objected.

"That's the price of taking you to a cursed place, Dragonborn," the ferryman insisted. "Take it or leave it."

"Pirate," Marcus muttered, handing over the gold. There went everything he had just picked up in Dimhollow Crypt. He looked at Serana in the gathering evening gloom. She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. The thin leather boots she wore wouldn't stand up to a lot of walking. She had already half-way limped into Dawnstar. Flying was out: Odahviing would refuse to carry her. This was the fastest way he knew to get her home. He hoped it would be worth it to her.

They climbed into the dinghy and Harlaug poled them off the beach. Ordinarily, when Marcus traveled with the ferryman, he would help him sail the boat. This time, however, in a fit of pique, he sat in the middle next to Serana and let Harlaug do all the work. It took them all night to crawl their way up the coast to Icewater Jetty. Harlaug, true to his word, didn't stick around, and turned about as soon as they stepped off.

"Good luck to you, Dragonborn," he threw over his shoulder as his sail caught the westerly breeze to carry him back to Dawnstar.

"There's a small boat over there," Serana pointed out. "We should be able to reach the castle in that."

"Get in," Marcus said tersely, still fuming over the gouging payment he'd had to make to get here.

Serana obeyed without a word and he alternately poled and rowed his way across the inlet to the island. The bottom of the little boat scraped the sandy beach twenty minutes later, and Marcus shipped the oars, laying them inside, and dragged the boat further up the beach after Serana got out so it wouldn't float away on the tide.

Seen up close, the castle, which Serana said was named Volkihar Keep, was enormous – larger, even, than Fort Dawnguard. A huge stone causeway rose up to the main gate, closed at the moment by an iron portcullis. Flanking either side of the causeway were more of the stone gargoyles, and Marcus eyed them with more than a little trepidation as they made their way up. Thankfully, they remained stone.

Halfway up, Serana paused, and Marcus turned back to give her a questioning glance.

"Hey, so…" she began nervously, "before we go in?"

"Are you alright, Serana?" Marcus asked, suddenly all fatherly again. Yes, she was a vampire, but she was still a young girl coming home after a long, unexplained absence, and most definitely unsure of the reception she'd be getting.

She smiled, and he felt himself relaxing. "I think so," she answered. "And…thanks for asking. I know your friends would probably want to kill everything in here. I'm hoping you can show some more control than that."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he quipped drily.

She gave a small laugh, but there was little enjoyment in it. "Yeah, so, anyway, once we're inside, just keep quiet for a bit. Let me take the lead."

"Sure, if that's how you want it," Marcus said. "If your family _is_ there, feel free to tell them whatever you like. I'm not looking for any kind of reward or anything. I just want to know that they _want_ you back safe and sound."

"That's fine," Serana agreed, willingly. "Just so you know, I'm probably going to go my own way for a while. I guess I want to say, thanks for everything you've done."

"You're welcome, Serana," he smiled. "Let's go meet the parents, okay?"

She gave him a curious look, but said no more as they approached the portcullis, which raised as they drew closer. Surprised, Marcus turned to Serana, but the vampire girl said nothing as they entered the foyer of the castle.

Standing a few feet away was an Altmer in grey leather armor, similar in style to Lokil's. Closer inspection, however, revealed the glowing eyes and more angular features of a high elf that had become a vampire. He glared at Marcus and approached in a threatening manner.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" he demanded. "How dare you—"

He broke off as Serana stepped out from behind the Dragonborn.

"What? Serana?" he gasped. "I can hardly believe it. After all this time!" The Altmer rushed to a balcony just beyond the foyer opening and proclaimed to the host below: "My Lord…ladies… _everyone! Serana has returned!"_

"I guess I'm expected," Serana murmured with no small measure of irony in her voice. She rolled her eyes and took a deep breath before crossing the foyer. She descended the flight of steps into the hall below, and Marcus followed her cautiously. This was, after all, a hive full of vampires, and he was only one Dragonborn. It would be wise to make sure his escape route to the front door was free and clear.

A distinguished-looking man, wearing armor similar to Serana's, approached from the head of a long table. He stopped in the center of the room and swept a glowering look over Marcus before settling on Serana, who stopped a few feet from him. Marcus tried not to notice that human remains lay on every table around him, blood dripped onto the stone floor, and death hounds prowled in the shadows of the room. The stench of blood and viscera threatened to raise his bloodlust again, though he knew he couldn't 'go wolf' until at least a day had passed.

A murmur swept around the room as the dozen other vampires all muttered at the appearance of the long-lost Serana. The richly-dressed vampire in the center of the room must be her father, as he opened his arms wide, but stopped short of embracing her.

"So," he proclaimed in a rich baritone, "my long-lost daughter returns at last. I trust you have my Elder Scroll?"

Marcus wasn't the only one struck by the crassness of the statement. Serana frowned.

"After all these years, that's the first thing you ask me?" she complained. "Yes, I have the Scroll."

The crowd buzzed with excitement.

"She has the Scroll!" he heard someone whisper too loudly.

Her father immediately backed down, but not far. "Of course I'm delighted to see you, my daughter," he soothed, but there was no warmth in it. "Must I really say the words aloud?"

 _If you were any kind of father, it wouldn't hurt,_ Marcus thought sourly. _She's been gone for centuries and all you can think about is the Scroll?_ But the lord of the Keep was speaking again, and he forced himself to pay attention.

"Ah, if only your traitor mother were here," he sighed. "I would let her watch this reunion before putting her head on a spike."

Marcus gave an involuntary gasp of horror. He had seen families torn apart by divorce before, and heard some of the worst things fractured spouses could say to each other or their children, but he had never heard anything this sadistic. Did this man care anything at all about the fact that he was speaking of Serana's mother? At that moment, Marcus realized he didn't like this man, and if push came to shove, he would easily kill him, Serana's father or not. But once more, he was speaking, and Marcus made himself listen and stay alert.

"Now, tell me, who is this stranger you have brought into our hall?"

 _Uh oh, Marcus…the spotlight's on you, now,_ he told himself. Remembering what Serana had asked, he remained silent and let her do the talking.

"This is my…savior," she explained, with only a slight hesitation. "The one who freed me," she finished.

The vampire lord turned his glowing gaze toward Marcus, eyes narrowing only slightly in suspicion.

"For my daughter's safe return, you have my gratitude," he said formally. "Tell me, what is your name?"

 _Names have power,_ Marcus remembered from some fairytale book he'd read ages ago. _Don't give him that power._ It was foolishness, perhaps, but in this case he'd be wise not to throw caution to the wind.

"You first," he invited, inclining his head slightly to avoid sounding insolent.

A thin smile spread across the vampire lord's face, but there was no warmth in it. Marcus knew he wasn't fooling anyone.

"Very well," Serana's father said. "I am Harkon, lord of this court. By now, my daughter will have told you what we are."

Harkon! That was the name Lokil had mentioned in Dimhollow. So had Harkon sent Lokil there to recover his daughter? No, that didn't make sense, either, because Lokil hadn't known what he was looking for. He'd been tipped off by the activity of the Vigilants, as Tolan had said.

"You're vampires," Marcus said now, keeping his whirling thoughts private.

"Not just vampires," Harkon replied smugly. "We are among the oldest and most powerful vampires in Skyrim. For centuries we lived here, far from the cares of the world." He paced back and forth, broodingly. "All that ended when my wife betrayed me and stole away that which I value the most."

 _Your Elder Scroll?_ Marcus thought sarcastically, judging from his opening greeting to his own daughter. He was feeling decidedly outnumbered here, and overwhelmingly uncomfortable. He wanted to risk a glance behind him to make sure the way to the door was still clear, but so far Harkon hadn't made any threatening moves. And while the rest of his court never left their places at the table, they watched him with their glittering eyes, making the hairs on the back of his neck rise up in an alarming way.

Marcus had been in many life-threatening situations since coming to Skyrim, but he had quite literally never been so scared in his life. "What happens now?" he managed to get out past the fear that tightened his throat. What he meant was, _'What happens to Serana now? Is she welcome here?'_ But that's not how Harkon interpreted his question.

"You have done me a great service," the Lord of Volkihar Keep smiled, "and now you must be rewarded. There is but one gift I can give that is equal in value to the Elder Scroll and my daughter."

Marcus didn't fail to notice where Serana ranked on that short list. He couldn't see her face, but her stiffened attitude told him she had noticed as well.

"I offer you my blood," Harkon continued, spreading his hands wide. "Take it, and you will walk as a lion among sheep. Men will tremble at your approach, and you will never fear death again."

To be fair, he didn't fear death _now_. He'd already done it once and it hadn't turned out that bad. He'd come close on more than one occasion and had been to the afterlife that awaited him. It was only those who feared the unknown who wished to postpone the final embrace of death for as long as possible. Marcus had no such fear.

"I'm a werewolf," he found himself admitting with more confidence than he felt. Serana gasped, spinning around to stare at him. Apparently, this was something she hadn't expected. "Your blood won't work on me."

Lord Harkon merely smiled. "Yes," he drawled, "I can smell it on you." It sounded like the insult it was probably meant to be. "But the power of my blood, unlike that of those lesser, feral vampires, will purge that filth from your body and make you whole again."

 _Filth?_ his wolf spirit growled. That was hitting below the belt. He might not like being a werewolf, and was hoping for a cure, but this wasn't it.

"And if I refuse your gift?" Marcus asked. Would Harkon violate the laws of hospitality to a guest under his roof? Did vampires even honor such a code?

The smile faded from Harkon's face, and the glitter of his eyes turned to chips of ice. "Then you will be prey," he intoned, his voice dropping a full register and dripping with displeasure. Evidently, Lord Harkon wasn't used to being told 'no.'

"I will spare your life this once, but you will be banished from this hall." Seething with rage, Harkon made a supreme effort to get himself under control. "Perhaps you still need convincing?" Not waiting for an answer, he shouted, "Behold the power!"

Black mist encircled him as his shape writhed, twisted and morphed. Wings sprouted from his back, the armor melted away and left in its place slick, hairless gray skin that gleamed like carved stone. A loincloth covered his lower abdomen, claws extended from his feet and hands and horns sprouted from his head, crowned with an elaborate circlet of pure gold. He looked every inch a living representation of a gargoyle, down to the gleaming fangs that protruded from his mouth.

He glared at Marcus. "This is the power that I offer!" he hissed. "Now, make your choice!"

It was really no choice. Join him and lose everything he cared about, or refuse and hope he could make it to the door before the entire court leaped on him. He wondered if Serana would intervene. She hadn't said a word since finding out his secret.

"I don't want to become a vampire," Marcus said, already edging backwards towards the stairs. "I refuse!" Not waiting to hear Harkon's reply, he spun around and bolted up to the balcony above, each step becoming heavier than the last. His vision began to blur, though he could hear the Lord of Volkihar Keep quite clearly.

"So be it!" the vampire lord growled. "You are prey, like all mortals. _I banish you!"_

The last thing Marcus remembered before blacking out was reaching for the handle of the front door.

* * *

 _[Author's Note: Next up, Marcus gets an opportunity to help Kodlak find a cure before he reports back to Isran. And Tamsyn runs into trouble of her own down in the Imperial City when she learns what the Synod has been trying to keep secret. Will Argis and Cicero be able to help, or will they need to call in favors of their own?]_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

He never remembered getting out of the castle, crossing the causeway or stumbling down to the beach where he collapsed, unconscious. He awoke, he knew not how much later, but the sun was higher in the sky than it had been when he and Serana had entered the Keep.

With shaking hands, Marcus pulled potions out of his pack to restore his stamina and health, and chased it with a flask of Colovian brandy he kept tucked in a side pouch. The brandy was to help steady his nerves.

 _Isran isn't going to like this at all,_ he thought. _Fuck him. I don't think he'd have done any better._

Taking a deep breath, he summoned Odahviing. When the dragon arrived, he waited until they were in the air before deciding where to go. It was very tempting to just head home and tell the Dawnguard they could stuff it. He'd keep watch over Whiterun; let them play Van Helsing without him.

But before he'd lost touch with Akatosh, the Chief of the Nine had impressed upon him the importance of seeking out this new threat and eradicating it. He couldn't very well do that if he stayed home. Besides, he owed the vampires payback for what they'd done to Skulvar and Adrianne.

There was also his secret war against the Thalmor to consider. The rising threat of vampires could theoretically destroy everything he had worked so hard to achieve.

Odahviing was making lazy circles above Northwatch Keep, waiting for his Lord to direct him. Marcus noted absently that the Thalmor had not repopulated the place since he and Tamsyn and a few others had come here to find his children – only to discover they had never been here in the first place. He didn't regret the lives he'd taken that day. The message it had sent to the Dominion was loud and clear. _Don't fuck with the Dragonborn._

"Let's head to Solitude, Odahviing," he said finally. "I need to check in with General Tullius. It's been a while."

The dragon dipped a wing and veered off to the east, and a scant ten minutes later they were wheeling in the skies over Skyrim's capital. By this time, the citizens were used to the sight of the Dragonborn coming in on his huge red dragon, landing in the Castle Dour courtyard. That didn't mean they didn't give the area a wide berth, at least until the dragon had taken off again and flown out of sight.

General Tullius, head of the Imperial Legion in Skyrim and representative of the Emperor's interests, greeted Marcus cordially as he entered. The guards were dismissed, and only Legate Rikke remained to bear witness to the Dragonborn's report.

"I've heard of the Dawnguard, of course," Tullius, a grizzled, balding veteran in his late fifties told Marcus. "But I thought they were disbanded centuries ago."

"I honestly don't know much about them," Marcus said, "but we've been under a couple of attacks in Whiterun in the last several months, and recently a good friend of mine was severely injured. I need to do something so it won't interfere with other things we've got going on."

"Good idea," Tullius remarked. "The last thing I want is for supply lines to be interrupted, or for anyone to get infected and carry that through the rest of the troops."

"How is your friend doing, Marcus?" Rikke asked solicitously, watching him pace up and down.

"The healers are working on her," he told her. "As I said, she was hurt pretty bad, but Priestess Danica seems to think they can keep her from turning into a vampire."

"What about you?" she asked shrewdly.

He stopped in his tracks. "What do you mean, what about me?" he demanded irritably.

"You seem...restless," she shrugged. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine!" Marcus snapped. At her stiffened reaction, he relented. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I haven't been sleeping well lately. I've got a lot on my mind."

"Well go home and get some rest," Tullius ordered. "I can't afford to have you fall apart. Here, this should help." He shoved a sheaf of papers at Marcus. "These are the latest reports from Mzulft that Ulfric sent the other day. It's not very interesting reading. It should help you sleep." The faintest quirk at the corner of the General's lip told Marcus he was making a joke.

"Thanks," Marcus said wryly. "Hear anything from Madanach in Bthardamz?"

"Nothing new to report there since they settled the Afflicted problem," said Tullius. "I also heard from Jarl Nepos that they're re-opening Cidhna Mine. It's no longer a prison, and the workers are actually going to get paid to pull silver out of the ground." He shook his head. "That I should live to see the day when the Reach actually settles down! It'll be a shame to give it back to that murdering madman."

"That 'murdering madman' is going to be one of our strongest allies," Marcus reminded him. "If we have to give up some acreage to make that happen, it's a price I'm willing to pay."

"You don't own that land, though," Tullius pointed out.

"I own a little of it," Marcus smirked. "A tiny little corner called Vlindrel Hall that I'm thinking of turning back over to the Jarl. Maybe they can turn it into a school for the children. I'll have to suggest it to Nepos next time I'm there."

General Tullius shook his head. "And I thought the Empire was on the front edge of social reform!" he said in resignation.

Marcus made his farewells soon after. Time was wearing on, and he wanted to get back home. He still needed to return with a report to Isran at Fort Dawnguard, but Whiterun was on his way. Deciding against calling Odahviing, he made his way out of the city to head down to the stables.

Ma'adran's caravan was outside the gate. He could smell them before he saw them, and it wasn't because of unhealthy hygienic habits. The breeze was from the south, and it carried their scent to him. He also smelled the horses at the stables, the manure in the stalls, and from further away, the fetid smell of the marshes to the southeast.

Overhead he heard hawks in flight, the wind ruffling their feathers. A crack in the forest to the west told him that a small herd of deer were picking their way through the trees. The sun was warm on his flesh, but though it was early spring, he felt as though high summer had kicked in. The gravel crunched beneath his boots, and suddenly it was all too overwhelming. The sensory overload seemed to make everything much more focused and clear: sawdust from the mill; fish from the bay; the rattling chains of the anchors on the ships near the docks. Men called and shouted to each other, gulls screeched as they fought over remnants of fish on the wharf. Marcus could smell the blood from a goat that had been recently butchered, and knew he was losing control.

 _Not here!_ he thought in panic. _Please not here!_

 _Oh, yes, here, Dragonborn,_ Hircine gloated in his mind. _You have resisted my call to the Hunt for too long. The prey awaits in the woods. You heard their hooves. Now feel the blood coursing in their veins! Hear the hammer of their hearts as they flee in panic. They seek escape. Do not give it to them!_

He could feel the change beginning, and in terror he left the road and climbed straight up the cliff face, vanishing over the rim. His hands were already becoming claws, but the Khajiit were too far away to see. By the time he disappeared into the woods, the transformation was nearly complete. Marcus recoiled from Hircine, from what he had become, and Wolf took his place.

The deer were farther away now, but Wolf ran easily, covering the distance with mile-eating strides. He was upon them before they realized he was coming, so silently did he run. Two fell to his claws immediately, and the third soon after. He devoured their hearts and felt himself grow stronger. The bloodlust was up, now, and would not be denied. Wolf ran on, seeking other prey.

Bandits awaited along the road in ambush, but Wolf turned the ambush around on them. In just a few moments they were dead, torn apart at his feet.

 _No!_ Marcus silently screamed in horror, as Wolf dipped his muzzle to the first bandit. _Not that! Please!_

Wolf would not be denied. This was his reward for a successful hunt. He left the carcasses where they lay, their hearts ripped out and devoured. Blood stained Wolf's face but he didn't care, and he didn't stop.

On he ran, through a grove guarded by a spriggan. Though the animals attempted to stop him, he swept them aside with the power of his massive forearms. The spriggan fell to his claws and didn't get up, the insects that made their home in her fleeing in panic. The bear was a worthy opponent, but the outcome was inevitable, and Wolf was unstoppable.

On he ran, through the small town of Dragon Bridge, and it was only with a superhuman effort of will on Marcus' part that he kept Wolf from attacking the innocent citizens of the town. They chased him across the bridge over the Karth River, but he quickly left them behind and continued into Hjaalmarch, where a group of vampires attacked. There were three of them, and Wolf was disappointed that their hearts were not beating.

 _Wasted meat,_ he thought in anger.

 _Patience, my Champion,_ Hircine soothed. _Continue to hunt, and soon you will benefit even from feeding on the dead._

This sounded good to Wolf, but Marcus would have thrown up, if he'd had governance over his body.

They had been running for almost an hour, and Marcus was beginning to think he might regain control soon, but they passed a fortress that Marcus didn't know was here. They were perhaps another hour away from Morthal at the rate they were covering ground when arrows came out of nowhere and hit Wolf in the shoulder.

Immediately he howled and reversed direction, leaping on the offending skeleton that had come out of the fort to attack. Lightning crackled into the ground next to them, and Wolf saw a necromancer on the wall of the fort.

The skeleton was no challenge at all, smashed into pieces on the first blow. Wolf dashed inside and leaped up the steps three at a time to get to the necromancer.

 _We are outnumbered here!_ Marcus insisted in panic. He hated that he couldn't do anything to help himself. He couldn't cast spells, he couldn't Shout and he couldn't use potions to heal himself. All his gear seemed to have melded into him.

But Wolf was already mauling the first necromancer and ripped out the man's heart, devouring it. The renewed vigor it gave him healed some of the injuries as he launched himself at the next necromancer twenty feet away, bashing a skeleton out of the way with one paw.

Horrified, Marcus could only sit back in a corner of his mind and watch as Wolf systematically cleared the fortress of anything living or undead. The beast was a one-wolf wrecking crew, and only when the last necromancer was dead and the last skeleton had been crushed to dust did Wolf pause, exhausted. In spite of the boost the feedings had done for him, he couldn't stay in control any longer and receded, giving over control of the body as it reverted to human form to Marcus, who staggered to a corner of the last room they had raided to get noisily sick. Filled with self-loathing, the Dragonborn slumped down, drew up his knees and wrapped his arms around them, buried his head and wept.

* * *

Tamsyn presented herself to First Adjunct Vendrassi at the tower that, two hundred years previous, had been home to the Arcane University. To call it that now would have been a great disservice to the institution of arcane knowledge it had once been. Even though the First Adjunct had sent the letter to her under the auspices of being from the University, there was little left in the way of free-thinking mages here now.

No tour of the inner buildings was offered, and Tamsyn was slightly put-out about that. Having played _Oblivion_ a few times in her previous life, she had been looking forward to seeing the enchanting and spell-creating altars she knew from the game, though she had a strong suspicion they were no longer in place.

She also noticed the transporter daises had been removed, and an ordinary spiral staircase had been installed to access the upper floors of the tower. Her curiosity about these changes ran wild, but she knew she would not be able to comment on them.

 _I wonder if the Arch-Mage's ingredient chest is still here?_ she mused. _Probably not. If they're hoarding magic, that's probably gone, too._ She was grateful to have kept the Staff of Magnus out of their reach.

"Welcome, Arch-Mage Tamsyn," First Adjunct Vendrassi greeted her cordially. "It was good of you to come. I know this has been a long trip for you. I hope you've found your rooms at the King and Queen accommodating?"

 _No, actually, they're awfully tiny,_ Tamsyn thought, but aloud replied, "I am comfortable enough, First Adjunct, thank you."

"I'm glad to hear it," the mer replied. He was an Altmer, with the typical golden skin of his race, but his hair was almost a strawberry-blonde in hue. His eyes were very orange, and he was close to Argis in height, though much more slender. "And please, there's no need for formalities here. You may address me as Prefect, or simply 'Vendrassi', whichever you feel more at ease with. I find the formal title of 'First Adjunct' a terribly wordy title."

"I'm afraid I'm not very familiar with forms of address in Cyrodiil these days," Tamsyn apologized. "We don't hear very much news from Cyrodiil in Skyrim, unless it has to do with the Emperor himself."

"Understandable, Arch-Mage," Vendrassi nodded. "Well, I hope you won't mind if we get right to the point of this meeting. If you would follow me, we can meet with the others of the Synod in the Orrery."

"The Orrery?" Tamsyn asked, surprised. In the game, it had mainly been off-limits until a related quest to repair it had been completed, at which time it was filled with astronomical observation equipment. And indeed, Vendrassi seemed to anticipate her next question.

"It's true the Orrery was repaired two hundred years ago, shortly before the Oblivion Crisis by the Hero of Kvatch," he said, leading her over to the middle of three doors on the other side of the chamber. "But after the Crisis was over, it was deemed…unnecessary, and dismantled. Now, the room is used for…meetings."

There was just the slightest hesitation before the last word, but Tamsyn noticed it. What kind of 'meetings' were held here? And did she really want to find out?

Vendrassi opened the door and gestured for her to precede him. Tamsyn gave an involuntary gasp. Even nearly empty, the room was impressive. Dwemer metal lined the walls to a height of ten or twelve feet. Above that, the domed ceiling was latticed with more of the dwarven metal, and panes of clear glass were snugly fitted into the spaces between them. The floor was recessed, and the highest point near the walls formed a walkway around the perimeter of the room. Comfortable benches had been placed around, and the center of the room was open, except for a small round table and four elegant chairs set in the very middle. The mosaic tile floor gleamed in the sunlight which streamed down from overhead.

Several people were seated around the benches. Most of them were Altmer, and nearly all of them were wearing the same simple, blue, hooded mages' robes she had seen on Paratus Decimius months ago when she had gone to Mzulft to find out more about the Staff of Magnus.

There were also a handful of Thalmor present, and this disturbed her not a little.

 _I hope you know what you're doing, Daddy,_ Tamsyn prayed. _You've sent me into the lion's den to find out what they're up to, and all I can think of is that they're going to eat me!_

She hadn't even told Enthir was she was attempting, knowing he would have voiced his disapproval of her plan loud and clear. Tolfdir, the dear sweet man, would have forbidden her to go – not that he could have stopped her – and would have insisted she send someone else.

The only one she had confided in was her husband Marcus, because he knew she was acting under the request of her father, Julianos, the god of magic himself.

" _Magic is disappearing from Tamriel,"_ Julianos had told them while they were in Sovngarde. _"The Aldmeri Dominion has something to do with it. They have been consolidating and hoarding magic since the Oblivion Crisis ended, and have somehow managed to seal away knowledge that existed up until the last turning of the age. The Khajiit, the Argonians, and the Redguards have almost no magic left, nor any interest in recovering it. The Bosmer and Orsimer are content to live as warriors. Imperials have some command of the talent, but not nearly enough, and Nords have practically shunned it. Of the non-Altmer races in Tamriel, only the Dunmer and the Bretons – and those with Breton heritage like the Reachfolk – still have a firm grip on magic. Find out what the Dominion is up to, daughter. Seek out the magics they would see forgotten. Build up your College and teach any who wish to learn. If only the Altmer have magic, Nirn will be made over in their image."_

And so Tamsyn had sent Enthir to Valenwood and J'zargo to Elsweyr to find out what they could about the interest in magic in their home Provinces, as well as to try to determine the extent to which the Thalmor had control. J'zargo had returned quicker than she had expected and reported his inquiries had almost landed him in prison.

"J'zargo only just escaped with his life, Arch-Mage," he told her, "and now he is fearful for his fine, striped fur coat. The reach of the Thalmor is long."

"But what about the magic in Elsweyr, J'zargo?" she insisted. "I sent you to find out about the magic."

"There is no magic in Elsweyr anymore, that J'zargo could discover," the Khajiit told her. "It does not come easily to us, so most do not try. J'zargo is sorry, Arch-Mage. He has failed you."

Tamsyn had sighed. "You didn't fail, J'zargo," she said patting his shoulder. "You did try, and you found out what I needed to know."

"So, J'zargo is free to go hide from the Thalmor now?" he asked, twitching his whiskers.

Unwilling to have him go off somewhere on his own where she couldn't reach him, Tamsyn had sent him to Blackreach, to train the recruits there. She was hopeful Enthir would be able to bring her more valuable information, even while she worried about him making the trip. Enthir assured her he was well aware of the risks, but insisted on going anyway.

"Not all my people are happy with the way things have turned out down there," he told her. "If you think the Nords are upset about not being allowed to worship Talos, you haven't seen a Bosmer denied his right to ritual cannibalism."

"Ugh!" Tamsyn exclaimed, revolted. "Do your people actually _do_ that?"

Enthir wrinkled his aristocratic nose. "Why do you think I left Valenwood?"

He hadn't returned before Tamsyn left for Cyrodiil.

Now, First Adjunct Vendrassi led her down to the lower level of the Orrery and paused by the table. "There are two others here today who would like to be included in our discussion," he said, "if you will allow it."

Tamsyn looked around. There were certainly more than just two other people here, and she remarked as much.

"True," Vendrassi nodded, "but only those seated at the table may partake in the discussion. The rest are simply observers, and cannot ask questions or offer answers. Won't you be seated?" He pulled out a chair for her, and with only a slight hesitation, Tamsyn sat.

Vendrassi smiled and turned to the crowd in the room. "I would like to ask Chancellor Lorena Polus of the Elder Council to sit in with us."

A wizened old Imperial woman with thinning gray hair coiled neatly at the nape of her neck rose unsteadily to her feet. Leaning on the arm of an apprentice mage, she slowly made her way over to the table and took the seat pulled out for her. When she settled in with a sigh, she glanced over at Tamsyn and gave her a subtle wink. The corner of her mouth lifted for an instant, and Tamsyn was reminded so much of the woman she used to be, that she immediately warmed to Chancellor Lorena.

"I would also like to ask First Emissary Gwaiden, of the Aldmeri Dominion, to join us," Vendrassi continued.

Tamsyn's good mood evaporated as the tall, angular figure of the Thalmor Emissary rose and descended, unaided, to the table. Behind him, Tamsyn saw a familiar masked figure. So, Justiciar Telperion was here, too? That didn't bode well. Still, it was unlikely anyone would attempt hostile actions towards her in such a public place. For now, she simply needed to remain on her guard. In preparation for this, she put up her mental defenses immediately, and noticed at once how Justiciar Telperion stiffened in her seat.

The Emissary took his place, and finally, First Adjunct Vendrassi sat down.

"Now, then," the First Adjunct began, "I think we should start with the kinds of magic—"

"A moment, if you please," Emissary Gwaiden interrupted, autocratically. "I should like to ask the Arch-Mage a few questions before we come to the matters for which you called this needless meeting, Vendrassi."

The First Adjunct didn't look happy at all. "We talked about this, Emissary," he frowned. "You will have your opportunity to discuss your issues with the Arch-Mage when we've finished."

"I'm a very busy man, as you well know, Vendrassi," Emissary Gwaiden retorted. "I'll ask my questions now, and then you may continue with whatever petty concerns you have."

"I'm perfectly happy to answer whatever questions trouble the First Emissary," Tamsyn interjected coolly, though she was anything but happy. "Please ask away." She glanced over to Chancellor Lorena to see how she felt about this, but the woman appeared to have nodded off.

Vendrassi shrugged. "Since the Arch-Mage has no objections, I yield to the First Emissary," he said, as graciously as he could, but he still glowered at his fellow Altmer.

"First of all," Emissary Gwaiden began, "I would like to know exactly what happened at our Embassy on the tenth of Rain's Hand, two years ago, when assailants broke in and murdered First Emissary Elenwen."

Without batting an eyelash, Tamsyn replied, "We heard about that, even at Winterhold. I wish I could answer you, Emissary Gwaiden, but I'm afraid I know very little about it."

"You were there," he accused.

"Was I?" Tamsyn feigned confusion. "Oh! That must have been when I answered Ambassador Elenwen's letter. Yes, I supposed I was there for a short time. But if you knew that, you must also know that I left shortly after my conversation with her was concluded."

Emissary Gwaiden's eyes flicked up towards the benches, where the masked figure of Justiciar Telperion sat, then returned to Tamsyn. "You are certain you had nothing to do with the break-in and murders?" he demanded.

First Adjunct Vendrassi gasped. "Emissary Gwaiden I must protest!" he cried. "This is the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold you're speaking to! You can't come in here and accuse her of taking part in such atrocities!"

Chancellor Lorena began to snore softly.

"Indeed," Tamsyn concurred in a voice that could layer the room with a film of frost. "I would like to know what proof the First Emissary has that would implicate me in such a terrible thing."

"One of the guards reported that your intention after leaving the Embassy was to travel to Dragon Bridge for…recruitment purposes, as I understand it," Emissary Gwaiden purred. "And yet, my investigators report that you never came to Dragon Bridge."

Oops. Tamsyn realized that was a major oversight on her part. _If you're going to tell a lie, make it a believable one. And then follow through._

She allowed herself to relax and chuckle. "Surely the First Emissary realizes that I'm a woman, and as such, it's my prerogative to change my mind?" It sounded weak, even to her ears, but she kept her mental defenses up all the same. "I had every intention of going to Dragon Bridge," she continued, "but a courier caught up to me – you know how efficient they can be – and delivered a letter from my Master Wizard, calling me back to the College." _Try verifying_ that _story, jerk,_ she thought. _By the time you find out there's nothing to it, I'll be miles from here._

"There, you see, First Emissary?" Vendrassi soothed. "Your fears are unfounded. The Arch-Mage had nothing to do with the attacks."

"Perhaps…" Clearly Emissary Gwaiden was reluctant to give up. "And perhaps she could explain this." He pulled a piece of parchment from inside his tunic and spread it out on the table, presenting it to Tamsyn.

Immediately, she recognized Cicero's handwriting, but the words were unmistakably her husband's.

" _Elenwen. I have reclaimed what you took from me. If you ever harm my children again, the next dagger will find its way to that cold, lifeless lump you call a heart."_

"You have children, do you not, Arch-Mage?" the Emissary smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile.

Irritably she glared at the Altmer. "Many people have children, Emissary, if you haven't noticed," she said drily. "Does the Dominion make a habit of kidnapping children? I fail to see what this has to do with me."

"I thought perhaps you might recognize the handwriting?" Emissary Gwaiden insinuated.

Tamsyn looked at the paper again. Oh yes, that was most definitely Cicero's penmanship. She could tell by the flowery style in which he wrote, with curlicues on the ends of the letters. She could feel a probing tendril of thought seeking a chink in her mental armor and slapped it away. She felt it recoil and heard a faint gasp behind her.

"No," she said finally, almost regretfully. "I wish I could help you, Emissary, but I've never seen this before. I might suggest you try getting samples of handwriting from known criminals, however, to compare this to. That might aid you in determining who the culprit is."

"I'm aware of the process, Arch-Mage," Gwaiden snapped, taking the paper back. "Thank you for your time." There was certainly no gratitude in his tone. He rose. "We're done here. First Adjunct; Chancellor; Arch-Mage." He bowed briefly to the others, and merely gave a jerk of his head to Tamsyn, then strode from the room, his entourage following him.

Tamsyn felt faint with relief as Justiciar Telperion left with the Emissary, and let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"Arch-Mage," Vendrassi said, turning to her, "please accept my apologies for my…associate's behavior. I had no idea he would bring up something so totally unrelated to you."

 _You're lying,_ she thought. _You knew exactly what he was attempting to do. You didn't make any attempt to stop him, other than a specious protest. Why else would you have permitted him to be present?_ While she felt better now that the Thalmor had departed, Tamsyn didn't let her guard down.

At this point, Chancellor Lorena seemed to rouse herself. "Are we ready to get on with our topic for today?" she asked brightly.

Vendrassi frowned. "Yes, Chancellor," he said, with only a hint of irritation. "I was just getting to that."

"Oh good!" she exclaimed. "I was afraid we were getting off the subject." She gave another sidelong wink to Tamsyn.

The rest of the morning was spent discussing magic in Tamriel in general. When Tamsyn suggested the possibility of magic fading, the gathered assemblage immediately discounted the notion.

"We haven't noticed anything of the kind," First Adjunct Vendrassi insisted.

"But in Hammerfell and Black Marsh—" Tamsyn began, but Chancellor Lorena gently interrupted.

"They don't have much magic there because they _choose_ not to practice it, dear," the old woman said. "If they made attempts to study it properly, by either coming here to the Imperial City, or traveling up to your enclave at the College, they could receive all the training they wish."

Tamsyn shook her head. "That doesn't make sense, though," she insisted. "Why _should_ they have to travel outside their home Provinces to study? Why aren't there places in Hammerfell or Elsweyr or Black Marsh where they can pursue their arcane education?"

"There _are_ mages in Hammerfell, Arch-Mage," Vendrassi pointed out. "Most of them study Alteration or Destruction magic, and they can be formidable warriors."

"Those who study magic there prefer to learn from hereditary shamans, rather than from any kind of organization dedicated to arcane education," Chancellor Lorena added.

"So it's not something that's being discouraged?" Tamsyn asked doubtfully.

"By the Eight, no!" the older woman chuckled. "If anyone from Elsweyr or Morrowind or any other Provinces of the Empire wanted to come here to study, we would certainly welcome them. But Hammerfell, you know, is no longer part of the Empire, and they prefer to go their own way in all things."

Tamsyn still wasn't convinced. Glancing swiftly around the room, she noticed most of the mages seated around 'observing' the proceedings were either Imperial or Altmer. There were no other races in her field of vision.

"I'm sure you must have mages studying up at your College who come from other parts of Tamriel," Vendrassi said in an off-hand manner.

"We do," Tamsyn admitted. "Nords aren't particularly fond of magic, but we do have a couple studying with us right now. There are Dunmer, also, but that isn't surprising, since a great many of them came to Skyrim after the explosion of Red Mountain."

"How many students do you currently have at your College now, Arch-Mage?" Chancellor Lorena asked.

 _Boy, that's a loaded question!_ Tamsyn thought. "Only about a dozen," she said. _We have scores more training in Blackreach and other places, but I'm not telling_ you _people about that!_

"And I understand you are hoping to reinstate battlemages? Is that right?" First Adjunct Vendrassi asked.

 _Someone's been feeding them information,_ Tamsyn thought with irritation. _I'll bet it was Illarion. Damn him!_ Aloud she replied, "Battlemages?" She gave a very convincing laugh. "Whatever for? We aren't at war. No, I'm simply hoping to educate the students on self-defense, and that requires the study of all magic and its uses in keeping one alive."

"There, you see?" Chancellor Lorena smiled. "I told Gwaiden he was overreacting!"

Vendrassi scowled at her, but the comment, Tamsyn felt sure, wasn't as unintended as Chancellor Lorena pretended it to be, and it only confirmed her suspicions that Illarion was feeding information to the Thalmor from within the College itself. The sooner he could meet with an "accident", the happier she would be.

"So you are teaching _all_ the schools, then?" First Adjunct Vendrassi pressed.

"We do offer classes at the Novice and Apprentice levels for all of them, yes," Tamsyn nodded. "After that, most of our students either go off into independent research, or lose interest and leave, figuring they've learned enough to get by." This was a bald-faced lie, of course, Tamsyn knew. Most of the recruits in Bthardamz and Blackreach were being taught higher level spells and enchantments. When they weren't studying, they were tending the alchemy labs and working at the enchanting tables. The Adept and Expert level students helped teach the Novice and Apprentice levels.

It was becoming quite a competition between the two camps to see who had the better mages, and mock combat matches were often arranged. Madanach's students, so far, were still the winners, but Blackreach was working hard to take them on again. Tamsyn encouraged it. A little healthy competition never hurt anyone.

So far, Mzulft had not participated, and Tamsyn knew it was because most of the troops stationed there were too busy fighting the Falmer that kept coming in from deep within the bowels of the Velothi Mountains. There were huge pockets of Falmer hives riddling the mountain chain, and it meant that the Imperial and Stormcloak troops there needed to stay alert and had little time for recreational combat.

"I'm curious to know what sort of magics the Synod are studying here," she said now, tired of being interrogated. It was high time to turn the tables on them. "I would really love to have a tour of your facilities here. Are you certain that can't be arranged?"

"I'm sorry," the First Adjunct said. "Our scholars are conducting very delicate and sensitive research at the moment. It would be inadvisable to interrupt their work merely for curiosity's sake."

"I see," Tamsyn said coldly. "And yet the Dominion sees no problem with interrupting _my_ scholars at the College 'for curiosity's sake'?" She rose. "If that is your answer, then perhaps I should send Advisor Illarion packing. Though he isn't as intrusive as his predecessor, Ancano, I have still received complaints from my Masters about his line of questioning."

"Arch-Mage, wait!" Vendrassi exclaimed. Tamsyn hesitated and turned back, already prepared to head out the door. "Perhaps I spoke in haste. Let me see if I can't make some arrangements. If you could give me until tomorrow, I'm sure I can make First Emissary Gwaiden realize that you need assurances we are on the same side…that of promoting the exploration of magic to benefit the Empire."

Tamsyn considered this. The logical part of her mind said this was a load of hogwash and she shouldn't believe anything the Synod told her. The irrational side of her really wanted to see the interior of the former Arcane University.

"I believe I can put off my return to Skyrim for another day," she said finally. "You know where I'm staying. You may send word to me there."

"Thank you for understanding, Arch-Mage," Vendrassi smiled, though there didn't appear to be any warmth in it. "I'm sure I can arrange a tour for you, and I think you will find it most enlightening."

 _I'll just bet,_ was all Tamsyn thought. But she kept that to herself.

* * *

Argis paced the tiny room allotted to Cicero and himself. Five steps to the door, turn, and five steps back to the window where he stared up and down the street, looking for Tamsyn. Back and forth, back and forth. Cicero watched him from the bed where he sat repairing his jester's motley. Another patch had been added, and it occurred to him there was very little left of the original motley he'd taken off the body of the Jester, his last job before becoming Keeper for the Night Mother.

"Would dear Argis like to go out?" he asked solicitously.

"No, Cis," the big Nord said. The pet name was only ever used between the two of them in private. "It's just that I don't like waiting here. I should have gone with her."

Cicero sighed as he expertly tucked the raw edges of his patch under and stitched it neatly down. The façade of the jester was gone, and there was only Cicero the man, crazily in love with this handsome, strapping young Nord who – by some miracle – seemed to care as much about him as he did about Argis.

"She said we should wait," Cicero pointed out. "I don't like it either, but Tamsyn has always seemed to know what she's doing."

"This is different," Argis insisted, ceasing his pacing and sitting on the edge of the bed next to his lover. "Something here doesn't feel right. Why would the Synod ask her to come down here? And why was that Thalmor bitch in the carriage with us?"

"I wish I knew," the little Imperial said. "I felt her trying to get into my mind, and wanted to kill her right then and there, but Tamsyn was too close and might have gotten hurt. If I had been by myself, though…" He let his voice trail off. There was no doubt what he would have done.

"You've never told me why you hate them so much," Argis said tentatively. "I mean, you don't have to now if you don't want to, but…well, I wondered. Most people don't like them. I still don't know how they got the upper hand in the Great War."

"You weren't around then, my handsome lad," Cicero said sadly, snuggling into the arm Argis draped over his shoulder. "It was a horrible time. I was but a strapping young lad myself; just a bit younger than you when the War broke out. Of course, my…Brothers and Sisters and I tended to stay out of it. Politics were of no concern to us unless a contract was involved, and even then, it wasn't a matter of allegiance. It was business."

Argis said nothing. He knew Cicero had been a Dark Brotherhood assassin, but that was in the past. His Thane, Marcus Dragonborn, had eliminated the guild of assassins, and Cicero was now the only one left. He was funny, smart, and deadly with his blades, and Argis – though he had tried to deny it – found himself physically attracted to the older, leaner man, in spite of the mental breakdown he had endured. Or perhaps it was because of it. Cicero's insanity had found an outlet in his fighting style, and while he had once been a paid murderer-for-hire, now he only plied his blade when Tamsyn or Marcus needed him to.

In private he was a tender lover, giving as much as he took, and never asking more than Argis was willing to give. He was generous and fierce and quite good with children, and Argis knew that for him there couldn't be anyone else, though he had tried.

Cicero didn't look at Argis as he spoke. His mind was already somewhere in the past. "Our Sanctuary in Wayrest, in High Rock, was attacked by corsairs. Only a handful of Brothers survived, and they made their way to Cyrodiil. But there was unrest in Bravil, where they were supposed to go. Gang wars, of all things, when the whole country was already being torn apart by war with the Dominion. We heard that our Sanctuary there was destroyed, and it was days before we knew if anyone had survived. By a stroke of luck, one had, and he managed to bring Mother back to Cheydinhal."

Argis didn't ask who 'Mother' was; he knew.

"We thought Mother would name a new Listener, but She never spoke. One by one, my Brothers abandoned Her, but I stayed. It was my duty to Her, and I would not shirk it, though it cost me years, and my sanity."

"You're stronger now than you were then, Cis," Argis told him, hugging the little man. "And who knows? Maybe She'll speak to someone again soon. Maybe all that has to happen is to bring someone you think might be suitable to Her and see what happens."

Cicero pulled back and stared at Argis, a slow smile spreading over his carrot-topped features. "This is why I love you!" he exclaimed. "You always know the right thing to say!"

The two cuddled together for several moments until Cicero sprang up and pulled on his now-repaired motley. "Why don't we take a stroll, Argis?" he suggested. "We could wander over to the Arboretum District, and if sweet Tamsyn just _happens_ to be done with her meeting, perhaps we could meet her there."

"I'm for that," Argis grinned. "Let's go!"

It wasn't until they were leaving the hotel that Argis realized Cicero still hadn't told him the reason for his hatred of the Thalmor. He gave a mental sigh. Perhaps someday.

Cicero led them both directly across the city, through the Green Emperor Way and skirting around the White Gold Tower where the Elder Council resided. From there they entered the Arboretum District and spent time waiting in the center plaza where the statue of Tiber Septim once stood.

Above the walls that enclosed them, they could still see the White Gold Tower, and to the northeast they could hear the roar of thousands of voices cheering.

"What's going on over there?" Argis asked. He had been through there with Tamsyn the day before, but as he was still new to the Imperial City, he couldn't remember the layout of the Districts.

"Ooo! That's the Arena District!" Cicero cooed. "Very exciting! Anyone can join, if they have the septims for the entrance fee."

"What do they do?"

Cicero blinked. "They fight, dear boy! They fight for glory, for honor, or for gold. It matters not their reasons. Cicero used to fight there when he was a very young man." The impersonal, third-person mode was back, and Argis knew it was because there were people around. "In the last Era, before the Oblivion Crisis, warriors and mages would fight to the death. But sadly, they don't do that anymore. It's only to the first blood."

"First blood, eh?" Argis mused, rubbing his chin. "What kind of money are we talking about here?"

Cicero giggled. "It depends on how popular you are, what the odds are against you, and whether you fight at the lower ranks or the upper ones," he said. "The Champions always take the biggest purses, but if you wager properly, you could make a tidy little nest egg." He cast a sly, sidelong glance at Argis. "Are you thinking of entering the lists?" he asked.

Argis considered, then sighed and shook his head. "No, we should watch for Lady Tamsyn. Thane Marcus wouldn't be too happy with us if we got sidetracked."

Cicero sighed as well. "I suppose you're right. But perhaps when we meet up with her, she might be willing to come to the Arena to watch?"

Argis chuckled. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to ask her."

It was another hour before Tamsyn finally emerged into the Arboretum District. Cicero saw her first and leaped to his feet.

"Sweet Tamsyn is back!" he crowed, bringing Argis to his feet.

"Hello you two," Tamsyn smiled. "I thought you were going to wait back at the hotel?"

"We got restless," Argis explained. "And that's a tiny room to be restless in."

"Pretty Tamsyn," Cicero cooed. "Dear, sweet Tamsyn."

"What do you want, Cicero?" the Arch-Mage smirked. "Did you want to get some sweetrolls?"

Cicero stopped. "A sweetroll would be nice," he allowed, "but that's not what Cicero was going to ask. May we go to the Arena?"

Now it was Tamsyn's turn to stop. "The Arena?" she echoed, throwing a glance towards that District. "Whatever for?"

"Cicero was telling me about it, and it sounds kind of fun," Argis said. "I need to get rid of some of this pent-up energy I'm building."

"But Argis," Tamsyn said, troubled. "You could get killed! Those games are deadly!"

"Oh no, dear Tamsyn," Cicero chuckled. "Not anymore they aren't. The Emperor disallowed fights to the death after the Great War. He proclaimed there had been enough death. They only fight to the first blood now."

"Oh," Tamsyn said. It didn't make it any better, really. She had never been a fan of spectator sports, and the Arena in _Oblivion_ had seemed far too much like the gladiator games of ancient Rome. But Argis and Cicero were looking at her hopefully, and she knew she'd get no peace if she didn't cave on this one point. Besides, she had little else to do while she waited for First Adjunct Vendrassi to contact her tomorrow.

"Alright," she said finally. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to at least look into it."

Half an hour later she was seated in the bleachers with Cicero at her side. Argis had entered the lists as a Pit Dog, and would be fighting three consecutive fights against single opponents. In his first fight he was up against an Argonian dualist who used two daggers, similar in style to Cicero. This was something Argis was very familiar with, and he was smart enough to stay out of range of the daggers until the Argonian paused in his attacks, giving Argis a chance to come in with his greatsword. Though his weapon was slower, and the Arena-issued armor was lighter than he was used to, Argis nevertheless managed to hit his opponent and draw blood before the lizard-man could lay a blade on him.

His next match pit him against a huge brute of an Orc wielding a double-bladed axe. This style of fighting – heavy, two-handed weapon against the same – was tiring for both combatants, and they spent several moments circling each other, waiting for an opening before striking. The Orc swung with his axe, hitting Argis on his shoulder pauldron, and while the powerful blow made the big Nord's arm tingle with numbness, he managed to bring up his own greatsword to slice across the Orc's chest. Chain links separated, but the Orc stepped back, preventing a deeper cut.

Cautiously now, the Orc studied Argis keenly, taking in his size, judging the speed with which he moved, and the ease with which he swung his blade. Suddenly he roared, charging straight at Argis, but veering off at the last moment and landing a solid blow to the Nord's back. The steel plate protecting the Housecarl dented, and Argis let out a _whoosh_ of air as the wind got knocked out of him. He stumbled and went to one knee, gasping for breath. Seeing an opportunity, the Orc brought up his axe and came at Argis from his blind side. The crowd roared, expecting this to be the end, but suddenly Argis' sword was there, catching the axe before it struck and with a flick of his wrists he sent the weapon flying out of the Orc's hands. One quick slice across the cheek, and the match was over. Argis had won again.

The third and final match was against an archer, and Cicero voiced his objections loud and clear.

"It's not a fair fight!" he howled. "Ranged against melee is never fair!"

"Calm down, Cicero," Tamsyn said, a worried frown on her face. "Those are iron arrows that won't do much damage. Hopefully Argis will be able to move more quickly in that lighter armor."

But Argis had been through two previous bouts and was tiring. Able to dodge the arrows he could see, he could only trust that the armor would protect him from the ones he couldn't. His best course of action, he knew, was to get as close to the archer as he could, as quickly as he could, rendering the bow less effective.

He almost made it to the woman before a searing pain pierced his thigh, and he looked down to see an arrow had sprouted there, blood trickling down his leg. He was out.

"Good match," he told the Bosmer.

"I got lucky," she shrugged. "I just knew I didn't want you to hit me with that thing."

The purse he'd won for his first two matches netted him only a hundred septims, but Argis was satisfied for now. As he rejoined Cicero and Tamsyn outside the Arena, he grinned. "That wasn't too bad. I think I'd like to try that again some time."

"Cicero still thinks it wasn't fair to put dear Argis up against an archer!" the little Imperial groused.

"Aw, never mind about that, Cicero," Argis said, giving him a squeeze. "I'll buy you something nice with the money I won." Cicero brightened up and immediately began thinking of all the things one hundred septims could buy.

They returned to the King and Queen hotel to enjoy an evening meal, and Tamsyn told them quietly about the possibility of a tour being arranged for her the next day.

"Were the Thalmor there?" Cicero murmured, after making sure no one else was close enough to hear.

"Yes," Tamsyn nodded, and quickly filled them in on the events of the morning.

"Cicero would be happy to make sure the Emissary never bothers you again, sweet Tamsyn," the jester frowned.

"You know we can't afford for that to happen," Tamsyn objected. "Believe me, I'd like nothing better than for all the Thalmor to fall off the edge of the world, but that's not going to happen in the immediate future."

"It might if you let me push them," Cicero said winsomely.

Tamsyn giggled. "Let's try to stay focused, okay?" she scolded, but her stern tone was ruined by the grin on her face. "If they are able to let me tour the facilities tomorrow, I might be able to learn a few things they didn't intend for me to learn."

"Like what?" Argis asked, keeping his one good eye on the rest of the room.

"Well, for example, I know there used to be altars at the University, back before the Oblivion Crisis," Tamsyn said. "They were used for creating new spells from the effects a mage already knew. They also had some used for enchanting, like we use the enchanting tables today, but these were more portable. I also noticed when I arrived this morning that the transportation portal that used to be in the main hall was missing, and an ordinary spiral staircase had been put in its place. This begs the question: where did the portal go? What happened to it?"

"And you think the Thalmor have taken these things?" Cicero asked, dropping the Jester role for the moment.

"I'm pretty sure," Tamsyn nodded. "I don't know about the altars yet, but if they let me in tomorrow, I'll be able to see that for myself. If the Thalmor have these transport portals somewhere, they may be using them to move from one place to another almost instantaneously, say, from here to the Summerset Isles."

"I get it," Argis said. "And if they've figured out, or knew all along, how those portals were made, they could make others and use them to their advantage."

"Exactly!" Tamsyn said. "I have the feeling that most of the Synod do what the Thalmor tell them to do. The fact that they were hoarding magical artifacts only means that the Thalmor were having the Synod do their dirty work."

"Maybe that masked Justiciar we met on the way down here was looking for something in one of the Ayleid ruins," Cicero suggested.

"She was there today," Tamsyn told them. "She sat in the bleachers, but I could feel her trying to get inside my mind again while her boss, the Emissary, was confronting me."

There was silence for several moments while the men with her digested this information.

"The sooner we get out of here and get back to Skyrim, the happier I'll be," Argis muttered.

"You won't get an argument from me on that, my friend," Tamsyn agreed.

"Then let's leave tonight," Cicero suggested. "Forget the tour! Tamsyn already knows the Thalmor are behind the Synod."

"No, Cicero, I actually don't know anything of the kind," Tamsyn said regretfully. "I have strong suspicions, but until I can learn something tangible, all I have is speculation. Besides, I really want to see the University tomorrow."

"Take one of us with you, then," Argis urged. "I don't like you going in there alone a second time. It was bad enough waiting for you today."

"You know I can't do that, Argis," Tamsyn insisted. "It would be viewed as a breach of trust. They actually haven't done anything bad to me, Thalmor interrogation notwithstanding."

A heavily cloaked figure entered then, and the patrons turned to give the newcomer a curious look before returning to their evening meals. The figure moved to the front counter and spoke quietly with the innkeeper, who gestured towards Tamsyn's table.

"Uh oh," Argis whispered. "Looks like we got company." He reached back to stretch and scratch the back of his neck, unobtrusively loosening the greatsword in its scabbard on his back. Tamsyn heard a quiet _snick_ from under the table as Cicero eased Stabby and Pokey from their sheaths.

"Easy, boys," Tamsyn murmured. "Let's find out what this is about first."

The figure approached, and lifted its head as it reached their table.

"Arch-Mage Tamsyn? We need to talk," said a woman's voice. "Is there someplace private we can go?"

It was Chancellor Lorena Polus, and Tamsyn was proud of the fact that she didn't gasp out the woman's name in surprise.

"To what do I owe the honor?" she asked instead.

"Not here, please," the Chancellor urged. "Too many other eyes and ears."

"My room, then," Tamsyn decided, her mind whirling. What could the Chancellor have to discuss with her that necessitated a secretive visit like this? "Follow me."

She led the Chancellor up the stairs, with Cicero behind her, hands never straying far from his daggers. Argis brought up the rear without making it appear he was watching the door.

Once in the tiny room, Argis stationed himself outside the door while Cicero joined the women inside.

"I'd prefer a private talk," the Chancellor said, eyeing Cicero nervously. To be fair, Tamsyn thought that anyone in their right mind would treat Cicero with extreme caution.

"Cicero is one of my bodyguards, Chancellor," Tamsyn insisted. "As is Argis outside the door. You may speak freely here."

"Fine, then," the older woman said, breathing hard. "May I sit? The stairs are difficult for a woman my age."

 _How well I know that!_ Tamsyn thought privately, indicating the Chancellor take the only chair. She and Cicero sat on the bed.

Chancellor Lorena looked around. "My word, this is a tiny room! It's almost an insult! Why didn't they put you up at the University itself? There are plenty of larger rooms there!"

"I suppose it has to do with all that 'sensitive research' they're doing there," Tamsyn said sourly.

"Poppycock!" the Chancellor snorted. "The only reason they didn't want you there is because they think you're a spy."

"What?" Tamsyn sputtered indignantly. _"They_ invited _me_ to come down here. I didn't have to, but I did it as a gesture of good faith. Why would they ask me to make this trip if they thought I was a spy? That doesn't make sense!"

For his part, Cicero remained silent, watching the Chancellor, and Tamsyn was grateful he was letting her handle things.

"My dear, they are afraid of you," the Chancellor said, in a deadly serious tone.

"Afraid of me?" Tamsyn queried. "Why? I've never done anything to them."

"Well, I don't know all the details, to be sure," Chancellor Lorena said. "I only know what Vendrassi has let slip from time to time. He thinks it's very suspicious that an entire expedition party went to Mzulft, after going to the College of Winterhold to speak with the Arch-Mage – er…Savos Aren, wasn't it at the time? Yes, and then they went to Mzulft and none of them ever came back. We also heard reports of some incident up at your College that was very convoluted, and then that someone from the College had brought back some powerful artifact from Labyrinthian. We heard about the death of your predecessor – my condolences for that, my dear – and that you had become the Arch-Mage. It was all very strange."

"Strange in what way?" Cicero asked now.

The Chancellor shrugged. "Well, strange in that someone we had never heard of before had suddenly become the new Arch-Mage. It certainly made the Synod nervous when reports trickled in that you had been the one your Arch-Mage sent to both Mzulft and then to Labyrinthian. It was even suggested that you were the one responsible for Savos Aren's death and—"

" _That's a gods-damned lie!"_ Tamsyn shouted, leaping to her feet. Cicero was on his feet as well, both daggers drawn.

To her credit, Chancellor Lorena didn't bat an eye. "My dear," she soothed. "I am only reporting what I have heard. I came here tonight at great risk of exposure to warn you."

"Warn me about what?" Tamsyn gritted out. "Get to your point, Chancellor." She motioned Cicero to sheathe his weapons and sit down again. Grudgingly, he did so.

"The Synod is a tool of the Dominion," the Chancellor said, unsurprisingly. "Most of them are Altmer…the ones who aren't expendable, anyway. They don't wish to share magical knowledge with anyone." She sighed. "It wasn't this segregated in my great-grandfather's time. Back then, the furtherance of magical knowledge was something to be shared." She gave Tamsyn a hard look. "Vendrassi will contact you tomorrow to tell you a tour has been arranged," she said now. "But it will be a sterile tour. You won't see very much except for dormitories, the alchemy lab and the library. The Chironasium and the Praxographical Center will be closed to you under specious arguments. And I'm sure those are two places you would very much like to see."

Tamsyn had to admit the Chancellor was right.

"What about the Arch-Mage's quarters in the Tower itself?" Tamsyn asked.

"It's just a storage room now," Chancellor Lorena said. "There hasn't been an Arch-Mage for at least a hundred years. The Grand Council runs things now, with Vendrassi as the First Adjunct. He has several Attendants under him. Field research is usually carried out by Conclaves, like the one Binder was running to explore Mzulft. I can get you into the Chironasium and the Praxographical Center, but it would have to be done tonight, before they move anything out of there that they don't want you to see."

"Why are you doing this?" Cicero asked now. "Why help the Arch-Mage?"

Chancellor Lorena hung her head. "I've watched what used to be an institute of arcane learning degrade into a shell of its former glory," she said. "My great-grandfather was Raminus Polus, Master Wizard of the Mages Guild during the Oblivion Crisis. He developed a cure for vampirism, and helped to lead the battlemages against the Daedra when Mehrunes Dagon attempted to break into our world. He could have been Arch-Mage himself, but preferred to guide and teach instead, and encouraged the Hero of Kvatch to explore his magical potential."

The Chancellor's eyes were shining as she spoke. Tamsyn remembered the character from the game. Here, in Tamriel, he had been a living, breathing person, who had gone on to marry and have children, and if the Chancellor was any indication, sired a legacy beyond death.

"How will you get me in?" Tamsyn asked now. She still had her doubts, but the Chancellor had from the start been friendly and kind to her.

"It's not unusual for me to visit the grounds at all hours," Chancellor Lorena said now. "I'm an old woman, and while I once studied there, I found I could be of better use to the Synod as a representative on the Elder Council. I help to channel employment opportunities their way, and in return I'm given free access to the facilities. I can get you in, if you know a spell that can make you invisible."

"Won't they have something to detect that?" Cicero asked. "It seems to Cicero that an arcane university would be prepared for a break-in using magic."

"But this isn't a break-in," Chancellor Lorena smirked. "I'm allowed to be there, you see. It's more of a…smuggling-in. And it's not as if the students haven't brought in contraband before. The guards typically turn a blind eye to that sort of thing. It's expected."

"I can make myself invisible," Tamsyn said. "Where and when?"

"Meet me at the Arboretum gate an hour past midnight tonight," the Chancellor said. "The guards are changed at that time, and for a span of ten minutes, there will be no one immediately outside the university gates. We can slip in unseen."

"I'll be there," Tamsyn promised.

"I'll expect you then," the Chancellor smiled. "Be careful, dear. The Thalmor have eyes and ears everywhere." With that, she departed, and Argis came in. Tamsyn told him what had been discussed, and he immediately frowned.

"It sounds like a trap to me," he rumbled.

"It does to Cicero, too," the little jester said.

Tamsyn shook her head. "I think you're wrong," she asserted. "We're all just jumping at shadows. I mean, from the very start, the Chancellor has been very kind to me."

"Cicero can be very charming indeed, right before he stabs his victim in the back," the red-haired Imperial intoned, his face looking very sinister in the candlelight.

"I have no doubt of that, Cicero," Tamsyn shuddered. "But honestly, this may be my only chance to find some real, solid evidence of what the Thalmor are up to."

"I suppose you want us to stay here while you go check it out," Argis said sourly.

"Please and thank you," Tamsyn replied. "It shouldn't take me too long. I just want to find out what they're hiding from me."

"Cicero doesn't think pretty Tamsyn should go alone," the jester scowled.

"I don't think the Chancellor is going to harm me," Tamsyn insisted. "She's trying to help."

"But—" Cicero began, though he stopped when Argis laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Maybe she's right," he rumbled. "We've all been jumpy lately. We should let her go. It's not like the Chancellor could smuggle all of us in."

Cicero opened his mouth in surprise to protest once more, but Argis shot him a knowing look that Tamsyn completely missed as she sighed in relief.

"Thank you, Argis. I promise you I'll be careful." She shooed them out of the room so that she could prepare herself for the meeting later that night. As the two men left to return to their room next door Cicero still fumed. Once their door was closed, he turned on Argis.

"In the name of Sithis, Argis!" he chided. "What were you thinking? We can't let her go in there by herself, alone, with no backup!"

"I didn't say she would," Argis replied mildly. "I know that woman; she's my Thane's wife, and an accomplished mage. I'm sure she thinks she can look after herself."

"But she's walking into a nest of those hated Thalmor and—What did you say?" the little Imperial stopped his ranting.

"I said she wasn't going in alone," Argis smirked. "She just doesn't have to see us tailing her."

"Oh!" Cicero giggled gleefully. "We'll follow her! That's very smart, dear boy, very smart indeed! But, oh—" He broke off. "How are we going to get over the wall without the guards seeing us?"

"You've got contacts here in the City, right?" Argis asked. "Call in some favors, if you have any. See if they can get us in. Or at least, give us something we can use to move around unseen."

A crafty look spread over the jester's face. "You dear, sweet boy!" he cooed. "I can see that spending time with me is already rubbing off on you!"

"There are other things I'd like to rub off on you," Argis grinned lecherously, "but we don't have a lot of time to prepare. The Chancellor told Lady Tamsyn to meet her at an hour past midnight. That's only four hours away."

"We'd best get moving, then," Cicero nodded, sighing regretfully. "When this is over, my lad, you're going to show me in detail the kinds of things you'd like to rub off on me!"

Argis grinned again. "That's a promise!"

* * *

"Now stay close to me," Chancellor Lorena told Tamsyn. "I'll open the gate, but you'll need to slip in quickly before I have to close it again. The same for the doors, once we get inside."

Tamsyn said nothing, but squeezed the Chancellor's shoulder to let her know she understood. She was already invisible, but the spell wouldn't last long. She wished she had been able to perfect an enchantment form of the illusion, to put on a ring or amulet, but she was still months away from that break-through when she had received the invitation to come to Cyrodiil.

Argis and Cicero had proclaimed they were retiring early, but asked her to wake them when she returned. She was grateful the two men hadn't given her any further argument about meeting the Chancellor alone tonight. She knew they were just doing the job Marcus had set for them, but sometimes she preferred to do things on her own; that way, she only put herself at risk, and she was confident she could handle most trouble that came her way.

Thinking of Marcus brought a wave of homesickness sweeping over her, and she promised herself some considerable time at home when she got back before returning to the College.

The Chancellor tapped her hand, and she slipped through the narrow opening the older woman had allowed her as soon as the gate was open, and the two women crossed the upper plaza to the steps that led down to the lower facilities.

The Praxographical Center, she remembered, was the entrance at the far left, and it was here that the Chancellor led her. They slipped inside quickly, and Tamsyn found herself in a room that hadn't changed much from the way she remembered it in the game. There was no one around at this hour, for which she was grateful.

"These altars are to be removed and taken into storage tomorrow morning," the Chancellor told her.  
"The 'official' story is that they need to be recalibrated. It's nonsense, really. They've never needed recalibration in all the years I've been here. But the students are young and will believe what they're told. They're conditioned that way."

"What do you mean, 'conditioned'?" Tamsyn asked, stepping closer to examine the altar.

"Only those students who accept the Thalmor overlordship are promoted here, and that usually means the Altmer. Anyone else who shows any measure of talent is usually sent off on some dangerous expedition from which they seldom, if ever, return."

Tamsyn turned to look at her in horror. "That's appalling!" she exclaimed. "How do they get away with it?"

"Oh, it's really not difficult, if you think about it," Chancellor Lorena said. "They ask for volunteers. If no one does, they pick out certain likely candidates and flatter them, promise them great rewards, and usually get enough non-Altmer mages to agree to go."

"What kind of rewards?" Tamsyn asked, though she had a feeling she knew.

The Chancellor shrugged. "Well, not many are willing to risk their lives for something as mundane as gold or enchanted items. But power? That can be very seductive. The students are promised secret knowledge, known only to a few. It's generally enough motivation to get them to agree to go. And the expeditions are legitimate. They truly _are_ after something known to have existed, such as the Ring of Sunfire or the Ayleid Crown of Nenalata."

"And do they get the reward if they come back?" Tamsyn couldn't help asking.

"Oh yes," Chancellor Lorena replied. "The Thalmor don't want to discourage anyone from volunteering based on a bad reputation, so if the student is talented or lucky enough to return, they get their reward. It only means they're the first person tapped when another expedition comes up, and there's generally a much sweeter reward offered if they agree to go."

"A bigger carrot gets dangled," Tamsyn drawled.

The analogy was not lost on the Chancellor. "Exactly. So, what are you looking for, my dear?"

"I'm trying to figure out how this thing works," Tamsyn said, looking the altar over, back and front, top and bottom. "I haven't seen anything like this." _Outside of the video game, that is,_ she thought to herself.

"It's quite simple, really," the Chancellor said. "Place a piece of parchment there." Tamsyn did so. "That's it. Now, put your hands on either side of the altar, like this." She showed the younger woman how, and Tamsyn did so after a moment's hesitation, imagining claws coming out to hold her prisoner. Nothing happened, however, except she suddenly felt a surge of power running through her.

"Do you feel that?" the Chancellor smiled. When Tamsyn nodded, she continued, "Now all you need do is fix in your mind a spell that you know. You may even add other spells to it, but each one you add increases the cost of the magicka required to cast it."

Tamsyn closed her eyes to concentrate, and realized this was this case. As she experimented with intensities, duration, targets and spell effects, she could feel the draw on her magicka reserves. She finally fixed upon a spell that would regenerate her health and magicka at the same time, at an accelerated but steady rate.

"Now what?" she asked.

"Project it onto the paper in front of you," the Chancellor said. "Imagine it written out, as if in a spellbook or scroll. Then, when you're ready, seal it with your magicka."

Tamsyn did so, and felt the drain of her reserves. She opened her eyes. The parchment was gone.

"Where did the paper go?" she asked, disappointed.

The Chancellor gave a small laugh. "It is expended when you create the spell," she explained. "The magic is now _in_ you. You can cast that spell at any time now, as long as you have the magicka to do it."

Experimentally, Tamsyn cast the spell and felt the drain of her magicka. She was already at full health, so she felt nothing there beyond a pleasant warmth, but she could feel her magicka replenishing rapidly as she stood there.

"That's so cool!" she exclaimed.

The Chancellor looked puzzled. "It's actually quite warm in here," she said, confused.

"I meant that's amazing," Tamsyn grinned. "It's good! It's very good!" Then she frowned. "I can see why the Synod wouldn't want just any mage to have an altar like this."

"Indeed," Chancellor Lorena nodded, seriously. "And don't forget: it's not the Synod itself but the Thalmor who don't want this knowledge out there."

Troubled, Tamsyn looked back longingly at the altar. She wished she could have smuggled one out, but perhaps there was a way to recreate one at the College, now that she knew the principles behind it.

"Come," Chancellor Lorena said. "I'm sure you'd like to see the rest before the students get up."

Tamsyn followed the older woman out the door, after casting invisibility on herself once more.

"This is the Mystic Archives," Chancellor Lorena explained, opening the next door. "Here is stored all the arcane knowledge we've managed to acquire.

Tamsyn was singularly unimpressed, and made a valiant effort not to show it. The Synod library wasn't even half as large as the one at her own College. Urag would have laughed at the paltry amount of books represented here.

"It's…impressive," she managed to say.

"Is it not?" the Chancellor said proudly. "Some of these books go back to the First Age! I understand your College has quite an extensive library as well?"

"We do," Tamsyn replied, noting many of the same titles she had seen in Urag's keeping. But there were many at the College that she had retrieved for Urag herself that she didn't see here. Still, there was no need to be smug about it. "Our librarian, Urag go-Shub, is very protective of the books. Even I still have to wear gloves when he lends them out to me."

"Dear me," the Chancellor blinked. "That sounds like an Orc name! Your librarian is an Orc?" She seemed surprised to have even heard of such a thing.

"He is indeed," Tamsyn chuckled. "And he's very intimidating, even in mage's robes. When I first came to the College, he threatened to have me torn apart by angry atronachs if I abused any of the books!"

"Oh my," the Chancellor breathed, unsure whether to be amused or shocked. "I can hardly believe you have an Orc for a librarian. I didn't even know they were literate!"

"Most are, when you get to know them," Tamsyn said stiffly. "Urag may be gruff on the exterior, but his passion for books is very real, and once you get to know him, he's a complete teddy bear."

"What is a 'teddy bear'?" the Chancellor asked, distracted. "Is that some kind of new species?"

Tamsyn allowed a smile. "No," she explained. "It's a child's toy. A small, stuffed animal in the shape of a bear."

"So you're suggesting that this Urag is soft?"

"Only once you get to know him," Tamsyn said flatly. "But I wouldn't suggest that to his face, or you'll find out just how much like a real bear he can be."

"Perhaps we should move on," Chancellor Lorena said warily, sensing this conversation was at an end. "The Mage's Quarters are next door, so we won't go in there. And the Imperial Watchtower is next to that. We aren't allowed in there; that's strictly for the City Guard to keep watch over the southern part of the Imperial City. We _are_ technically outside the walls, here, so we have a bastion of guards present to keep watch over us."

 _And to report to the Thalmor, too, I'll bet,_ Tamsyn couldn't help but think. She cast her invisibility once more and they made their way across the grounds to the door next to the Watchtower.

"These are the Practice Rooms, here," the Chancellor murmured. "I'm sure you have something similar at your College, and there may be some late-night practitioners still in there, so we won't go in. The place I want to show you next, that you won't get to see tomorrow, is the Chironasium."

This building was similar to the Praxographical Center in layout, but the altars Tamsyn remembered from the game had been replaced by the standard arcane enchanters she used at the College.

"What I want to show you here isn't on this floor," the Chancellor said. "It's upstairs, and will not be here tomorrow."

She led Tamsyn upstairs into another work area. At the far end was an altar Tamsyn had only seen in the game, and in the possession of a rather quirky, irritable Dunmer named Neloth. The ring-like surface was studded in the front with five spherical glowing blue stones of graduating sizes, the largest in front. The back of the table rose up in a lattice-work of carved stone, and was fitted with another glowing blue sphere. Carved arms of stone protruded from the front, curving up and back to form rests for the staff which lay there. Seated in the center of the table was a heartstone.

"Is this what I think this is?" the Arch-Mage breathed. Neloth's altar had been carved from wood. This one, made of some kind of marble, was much more impressive.

"A staff enchanter," Chancellor Lorena confirmed. "We found one in an Ayleid ruin some years back and brought it here. It took quite a lot of experimentation to realize it required a heartstone to activate. Sadly, the only source of heartstone that we know of is in Morrowind, and they are very difficult to get."

"What are the glowing blue stones?" Tamsyn asked.

"Those are a specially carved type of soul gem," the Chancellor explained. "It takes a lot of energy to create a staff, and as you can see, it requires different levels of gems to achieve the perfect balance. The one at the back is a grand soul gem, of course."

"And this one in the center front is a greater?" Tamsyn asked, touching it gently. When the Chancellor nodded, she surmised the two flanking it were commons, while the two on either end were lessers.

"So this is what the Synod…and the Thalmor…didn't want me to see?" Tamsyn asked.

Out of nowhere, she was suddenly seized with a wave of paralysis. Unable to resist or help herself, she fell to the floor.

"You're quite right, Arch-Mage," came a familiar voice. Footsteps sounded behind her and a pair of Thalmor boots came into view. "It's a pity you won't be around to spread that knowledge."

"Chancellor…" Tamsyn gasped out. "Run!" Though she knew the poor old woman wouldn't get far. Perhaps she might be able to surrender, and use her clout as a Councilwoman to get out of any repercussions.

"Oh, no, my dear," the Chancellor smiled sadly, leaning down. "The Thalmor won't do me any harm. You see, I told them to meet us here."

Rage suffused Tamsyn, though she was helpless to act. "You bitch!" she snarled. "You sold me out!"

"But of course I did," Chancellor Lorena laughed, and it was a cold, tinkling sound. "You are still so young, so naïve, you see. It was my idea to ingratiate myself with you. The kindly, grandmotherly old woman who just wanted to help. You would never have suspected me."

"My friends know I've come here," Tamsyn cried in desperation. "They'll come looking for me when I don't come back!"

"I don't think so," said the familiar Thalmor voice, and Justiciar Telperion leaned down, the pale blue eyes behind her mask boring into Tamsyn's green ones. "You see, we've already sent a party to…detain them for questioning." She gave a low chuckle that chilled Tamsyn's heart. "Not many come out of it the same way they go in…if they come out at all."

"My husband will come looking for me," Tamsyn flung at her.

"Oh, my dear Arch-Mage," the Justiciar said, leaning closer. "I'm counting on it!"

* * *

 _[Author's Note: It looks pretty bad, doesn't it? Will Argis and Cicero find help in sneaking into the College, or will they be captured in the attempt? And will Marcus be able to pull himself together to find a cure for himself and Alesan, and fight the vampire threat? As they used to say in the old radio dramas: stay tuned!]_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Marcus strode grim-faced into Whiterun on the twelfth of Rain's Hand. He didn't see Blaise at the forge, and assumed his son must be inside the shop. He was grateful for that; Blaise was very perceptive, and would sense immediately that his father was upset. He just didn't want to talk about it.

"You don't look so good, Dragonborn," Balder, one of the guards at the gate remarked. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Sleep is for the weak, Balder," he told the man, forcing a smile. "I'll rest when I'm dead."

Balder chuckled at the apparent joke and waved as Marcus made his way up the street. The Dragonborn, however, was far from amused at his plight.

At Jorrvaskr Marcus learned Kodlak was "out back", and found the older man watching Athis and Ria sparring with each other.

The Harbinger greeted him warmly. "I'm glad you stopped by, Dragonborn," he said. "There is something I would like to do, if you are agreeable."

"What's that?" Marcus asked warily. Several of the Companions had come out of the mead hall and were gathering on the back porch. Athis and Ria ceased their practice session and Aela, Farkas and Vilkas walked out into the yard and hovered, as if waiting for something.

"You have come to us and become one of us in a rather un-traditional way," Kodlak said. "I know that it has always been in your heart to want to join us. I would like to make it official, and make you a full-fledged member of the Companions, if you still wish to join."

Marcus looked around at the others. They were all grinning at him, especially Farkas. "You're all serious?" he asked. When they nodded, he swallowed hard. "Yeah," he answered faintly, before nodding enthusiastically. "I mean, yeah! I'd like that!" Suddenly he couldn't stop smiling. All his weariness evaporated, and he felt energized and ready to take on anything. From his first days in Whiterun he had wanted to join the Companions, but other things had always seemed to get in the way. Now the opportunity was presented to him, and he had no intention of letting it slip away from him.

"Then come down here to the yard," Kodlak invited, leading the way. "We have a little ceremony we usually do for the new whelps. It's a formality, really, since you, as Dragonborn, have already more than proven your honor and your worth, but this makes it official."

The Harbinger took his place in the middle of the half-ring of Circle members. It was keenly felt that one was missing; Skjor should have been next to Aela. Marcus stood facing them as Kodlak spoke.

"Brothers and Sisters of the Circle, today we welcome a new soul into our mortal hold. This man has endured, has challenged, and has shown his valor. Who will speak for him?"

Aela stepped forward. "I stand witness for the courage of the soul before us," she intoned. She met Marcus' gaze steadily. True to her words, that wolves lived in the "now", all past grievances, for her part, were forgiven.

"Would you raise your shield in his defense?" Kodlak asked her.

"I would stand at his back," Aela said staunchly, "that the world might never overtake us."

"And would you raise your sword in his honor?" Kodlak continued.

"It stands ready to meet the blood of his foes," Aela vowed.

"And would you raise a mug in his name?" Kodlak demanded.

"I would lead the song in triumph as our mead hall reveled in his stories!" she cried.

Kodlak smiled. "Then the judgement of this Circle is complete." He held his hand out to Marcus, almost as if in benediction. "His heart beats with fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, so the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call!"

Everyone cheered, and came up to pound Marcus on the back, welcoming him as a new Shield Brother. It all seemed so surreal to him, yet at the same time he felt a homecoming and fellowship he hadn't felt since coming to Tamriel. Marriage to Tamsyn was the best thing in his life right now, but even she would have been the first to admit she was no warrior. The men and women here _knew_ ; they understood, and Marcus hadn't realized until now how much he missed that kind of camaraderie.

Kodlak came up to him and smiled, clasping wrists with him. "Well, Dragonborn, you're one of us now. I know you won't disappoint. Already your legend is growing. Perhaps, as one of us, you will find an outlet denied you elsewhere."

"I already feel more at home than I have for a long time," Marcus grinned. "I don't know what it is, but I don't feel so…alone, anymore."

"That is a good feeling, son," Kodlak smiled, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come with me to my study. I have some good news; we have matters to discuss that are best kept away from prying ears." He turned and led the way inside.

"I didn't see Lars Battle-Born out there," Marcus commented as they descended to the lower level. Kodlak sighed.

"No, and it's likely we won't see that young man around here again," the older man said heavily. "I had a private conversation with Idolaf; Lars told him everything. As you can imagine, he was very upset. I assured him that those responsible have been…disciplined. But he threatened to go to the Jarl about it. It was only his respect for our reputation that stayed his hand and stilled his tongue, but that reputation is now somewhat…tarnished."

"Would you like me to speak with him?" Marcus asked. Though he felt Idolaf was sometimes too much of a stuffed shirt, placing far too much importance on his family name and position in Whiterun, he was still a more reasonable man to get along with than his father, Olfrid.

Kodlak shook his head. "No, Dragonborn, that won't be necessary. I managed to get him to agree to keep it quiet, since no real harm had been done to his son, other than the scare of his life, perhaps. I also told him that you and I had come to an understanding, and that we were working together to find a cure. Idolaf respects you; if he knows that you aren't seeking retribution, he knows he really can't say much for his part."

"You mentioned you had good news," Marcus reminded him as Kodlak ushered him into his study and closed the door.

"Yes!" the old man exclaimed, eyes brightening. "I believe I may have found the key to the cure. But it requires some cooperation from the witches who laid the curse upon us centuries ago, and they are not likely to give it freely."

"Everybody wants something," Marcus said wryly.

"This will be different," Kodlak assured him. "The witches took far more from us than their payment warranted. Now it is time to take back what was cheated from us."

"I'm not sure I understand," Marcus frowned.

"The answer lies with the witches' power," the Harbinger told him. "The witches' magic ensnared us, and only their magic can release us. They won't give it willingly, but we can extract their foul powers by force. I want you to seek them out. Go to their coven in the western wilderness of Falkreath Hold. Strike them down as a true warrior of the wild. And bring me their heads; the seat of their abilities. From there, we may begin to undo centuries of impurity."

"Their…heads…" Marcus said slowly, and Kodlak nodded firmly. "How does that help?"

"Just bring them here," the older man said. "Once I have them, we can take the next step."

Marcus gave a mental shrug. He still needed to head back to Fort Dawnguard to report to Isran, but this was more important to him. "Alright," he said. "I'll get them for you. But it may take me some time."

"The sooner the better, Dragonborn," Kodlak said. "I know you want to find a cure for your son. This is the only way I've been able to discover."

"Right, then," Marcus said. "I'll leave immediately. I'll just look in on Alesan and the kids. I should be back in two or three days."

"Good luck, Marcus," said the Harbinger softly. "The gods go with you."

Alesan was pacing restlessly when Marcus entered the Underforge, but he perked up considerably when he saw his father. At least, he couldn't keep his tail from wagging, so Marcus assumed he was no longer his son's least favorite person.

"Kodlak says he may have found a cure, son," he told the young werewolf. "He's sending me after…a component. Just try to hold on a little longer, okay?" He hesitated, remembering his last conversation while his son was still human. "I…uh…they made me a Companion, Alesan," he finally admitted. "I hope you're not too upset about that?"

In response, Alesan merely put his abnormally large forearms around Marcus' shoulders and hugged him. _"Alpha…"_ he yipped, and Marcus knew he was forgiven. He hugged his son for several minutes, before pulling away.

"The sooner I get going, the sooner we can end this, son," he said. "It shouldn't be more than two or three days. I'm not exactly sure where I'm going, so I'll have to search until I find the place. Just be patient. I'll be back soon." He hugged the juvenile once more. "I love you son. We'll see this through and get you back to your old self."

Sofie met him on her way home from Arcadia's and they walked back to Breezehome together.

"You saw Alesan?" she asked him as they went inside. He nodded.

"I've been trying to find a cure with alchemy," she admitted, "but Miss Arcadia says there isn't one."

"You didn't tell her?" Marcus asked in alarm.

"Of course not, Papa!" Sofie exclaimed. "I'm not stupid! I told her I was doing some research into cures for ailments that don't seem to have one yet, like vampirism, lycanthropy, and what happened to the Falmer race."

"What happened to the Falmer wasn't really a disease, though," Marcus felt obliged to point out. "They were blinded by the Dwemer, apparently, and what's happened to them since has taken centuries and generations to bring them to the forms they have today."

Sofie nodded. "Yes, that's what Miss Arcadia said. She also told me there's a mage in Morthal, named Falion, who has a cure for vampirism, but he's very secretive about it."

Marcus frowned. "Hmm…that seems rather selfish of him. A lot of people would like to know that cure."

"I don't know all the details," Sofie admitted, "but magic is involved, too, so I suppose it's not that easy to do."

"Still," Marcus insisted. "If you know a cure for something that could benefit a lot of people, it should be public knowledge. Back where – where I came from, a man named Jonas Sauk invented a cure for a terrible, paralyzing disease that threatened to maim and kill millions of children. He gave the cure away for free, because he knew it was the right thing to do."

"He sounds like a wonderful man!" Sofie exclaimed, eyes shining. "Is he still alive?"

Marcus coughed uncomfortably. "Uh…no, sweetheart. No, he's not. He…died…a long time ago. But my point is that perhaps this Falion person needs to think more about helping people than profiting from their misery."

"I wouldn't do that," his daughter declared. "When I become a Healer, I'm not going to ask anyone to give me any more than they can afford to give me."

"Then you'll be a poor, but good-hearted person," Lydia observed, coming into the room. "Welcome home, Thane. Shall I get supper ready?"

"Not just yet, Lydia," Marcus said. "Sofie, don't give up on your dream, dear. I'm sure you'll be one of the best Healers in Skyrim." He smiled at his daughter fondly as she hugged him around the waist and disappeared upstairs to change into her regular clothes. The shopkeeper's apron she wore reeked of alchemical ingredients.

Marcus spent the next half-hour going over household accounts with the Nord woman and reviewed her report on the investments he'd made in local businesses. While his investments were doing well, and though he could see the improvements being made on a daily basis in the lives of the townspeople, he couldn't help noticing that the chest where he kept his gold was getting lower. He pulled out a pouch of coins and gems he had 'liberated' from Dimhollow Crypt and the necromancer's fortress. To them he added the pouch he kept in the nightstand by his bed. He gave them to Lydia with directions to sell them and add the money to the chest. There were only two keys to the trunk, and Tamsyn had the other, so Marcus had entrusted his to Lydia.

"Very good, my Thane," she answered briskly. "Will there be anything else before I start supper?"

"Did any letters arrive?" he asked, trying to keep the tone of worry from his voice.

Lydia's gaze dropped away. "No, Thane. There's been nothing this past week."

Marcus tried to keep from placing too much importance on Tamsyn's lack of communication. There was probably a very normal explanation for it. Perhaps there just wasn't anything to report, and he'd hear all about her dull, boring trip when she got back. She might even be on her way back now. That thought galvanized him. He had to find this cure before Tamsyn returned, or he'd be like Lucy "'splainin' somethin'" to Ricky. He resolved to leave in the morning.

* * *

"You there!" the Falkreath guard called out to him as he approached the gates of the fortified town. "Have you seen a dog on the road?"

Marcus paused, looking around. There wasn't anyone else on the road at this hour, so he assumed the guard must be talking to him. "No," he replied. "I saw some wolves a while back, but no dogs."

"Ah well," the man sighed. "The blacksmith is offering a reward to anyone who can catch a dog for him. Guess I'll keep my eyes open, then. Mind your manners while you're in town, outsider."

Clearly the man had no idea who he was. Marcus found this more amusing than irritating. Even while his reputation had spread across Skyrim, and though few people, if any, could afford the dragonbone armor he wore, it never ceased to impress him that not everyone knew who the Dragonborn was by sight alone.

"I won't be causing any trouble," Marcus promised. "I'm just looking for directions. Do you know how I can get to Glenmoril Cave?"

The guard shook his head. "Never heard of the place," he frowned. "But talk to Valga Vinicia at the Dead Man's Rest. A real gossip, that one. If she doesn't know, no one will."

"Thanks," Marcus nodded. He passed through the gate in the partial stockade spreading to either side of the road. It reminded him a little of Helgen, still a ruin and a haven for bandits even now. This was a sore spot for Marcus. Helgen was, of course, his first introduction to the world of Skyrim, and he had barely escaped from it with his life three years previous. While the damage done to other Holds from dragon attacks had long since been repaired, Helgen remained a ghostly eyesore in Falkreath Hold. Marcus had suggested to Jarl Balgruuf the possibility of rebuilding it, but Whiterun's lord reminded him that the town was not in his jurisdiction.

"I can't go into another Jarl's Hold and rebuild a town, Dragonborn," he had said severely, "even if I wanted to. Falkreath's Jarl, Siddgeir, is the only one who can make the decision whether or not to restore the place. If he chooses not to, none of the rest of us can gainsay him."

"But the people who were displaced," Marcus had argued. "What about them? What about their homes and livelihoods?"

"It's out of my hands, Marcus," Jarl Balgruuf had said with finality.

Now, Marcus realized he had an opportunity here to see the Jarl himself and address the issue with the man who had the authority to get the job done. As he made his way further into town he realized that he had never really spent much time in Falkreath at all. When he had been possessed by the two ancient dragon souls he had taken, he had come through Falkreath with Cicero, but remembered little of the experience.

Now, he took his time to have a look around. The first thing he noticed was the lumber mill, and the second was the cemetery; the very large cemetery. It was, in fact, the largest graveyard he had ever seen in Skyrim. Three people were standing near a freshly-dug grave, and the smallness of the earthen mound made Marcus' throat tighten and his eyes sting. It was clearly a child's grave. He took off his helmet and stood respectfully nearby as the priest continued his invocation.

"The god Arkay was once like us," the Altmer priest intoned, "bound to winding mortality. But he willingly gave up this existence that we might better understand the vagaries of life and death."

The woman choked back a sob, and the man put his arm around her shoulders and drew her closer.

"It is through the ebb and flow of this cosmic tide that we find renewal and, in the end, peace," the priest said compassionately. He bowed his head, and the others, including Marcus, did likewise.

"May the spirit of Lavinia, and all those who have left this world and its suffering know the beloved serenity of Aetherius…and may we one day rejoin them in eternity."

"Amen," Marcus whispered.

The two grieving parents turned to look at him, but sensing he meant a sincere benediction, merely turned back to the grave to place flowers near the stone, before walking slowly back up the road to town, arms around each other.

As they passed him, the man stopped to look at the Dragonborn curiously.

"Please accept my sincere condolences for your loss," Marcus offered.

The man nodded shortly, but the look of gratitude in his eyes was heart-rending. He held his wife closer and went on his way.

Marcus stayed, unable to leave the tiny grave. How old was the child? What had been the cause of death? Infant mortality was still very real here. Many children born in Skyrim never lived to adulthood. Even older children were at risk for diseases that were no longer a threat in his old life.

Marcus thought back to his own children, to his son and daughters. They had all been properly vaccinated and had avoided measles, mumps and chicken pox. But Kelly had had a flare-up of appendicitis which had been very serious, indeed. Andrea had fallen off a stage during a school play and endured a skull fracture that left her in a coma for three days. David had come down with a parasitic infection that had taken several weeks of medication to eradicate. Any of those illnesses would be fatal here.

Why this tiny grave affected him so, Marcus couldn't explain. Perhaps it represented some of the things he had lost when his old life ended and he had been brought here. Regardless, he cast his eyes around and found a clump of blue mountain flowers growing alongside the road. He picked them and placed them on the small mound of freshly-turned earth, next to the ones laid down by the parents.

"Sleep well, little one," he murmured. "Whatever took you from this world, at least you're at peace now."

"You are a very compassionate person, stranger," said the voice of the priest behind him, and Marcus started. He hadn't even heard the mer come up behind him.

"I meant no harm," he floundered.

"And no offense has been taken," the priest smiled. "I'm Runil, the priest of Arkay here. And you are?" he prompted.

"Marcus of Whiterun," the younger man replied.

"Ah!" Runil's eyes brightened. "You are the one they call 'Dragonborn'! I've heard of you. What brings you to Falkreath, Dragonborn?"

"Call me Marcus, please," he smiled. "I'm looking for directions to Glenmoril Cave, actually."

Runil frowned. "Hmm," he mused. "I used to travel quite a bit in my younger days," he said slowly, "but I have never heard of the place. You might ask Valga, at the Inn. She might know."

"That's what the guard suggested, too," Marcus said.

Runil chuckled. "She has a reputation, Valga does," the old priest said with a smile. "If anyone would know, it would be her. Or you could ask our Jarl, Siddgeir. He most definitely _should_ know where it lies."

Marcus was grateful that the priest didn't ask him _why_ he sought the place, but he also couldn't help but notice the stiffness in Runil's voice when he spoke of his Jarl. There was obviously some tension between the Jarl and the priest.

"I'll do that, then, thank you," Marcus nodded, leaving the older mer to his duties. He touched the Shrine to Arkay out of respect as he passed it.

Further up the road he saw the bereaved father struggling in a field of leeks and cabbages. The poor man was working? Even after all he'd been through? He paused and saw the man pull a rag from his back pocket and wipe his eyes, then go back to digging with his hoe.

"Can I help?" Marcus asked kindly as he approached. Startled at first, the man relaxed when he saw who it was.

"It's the leeks," he explained, embarrassed. "The smell of them gets to me sometimes."

"Yeah, they'll do that," Marcus agreed. "You'd better sit down a minute and get a breath of fresh air. I'll get this for you." Without waiting for the man to refuse, Marcus gently took the garden tool from his hands and gave him a gentle push towards a hay bale, then vigorously attacked the weeds in the garden. It took nearly an hour, and when it was done, he felt oddly at peace.

"My thanks, stranger," the farmer said thickly. "Here, take this," he offered a small pouch of coins. "Honest pay for honest work."

But Marcus gently refused it. "I wasn't looking for payment," he said firmly. "I wanted to help."

"Then I'm in your debt," the man said. "My name is Mathies. If you ever need anything, and I can help, you let me know."

"Well," Marcus hedged. "If you don't mind my asking…" He hesitated, not really sure if he should proceed, but for some reason he needed to know. "Who was it that died?"

Mathies looked at Marcus for a long moment before seeming to make up his mind about something. "Our daughter," he said finally, as steadily as he could. "Our little girl. She…hadn't seen her tenth winter."

The choking sensation rose in Marcus' throat again. Lucia was only a year or so older.

"I'm so sorry," he commiserated. "I have a daughter about that age myself. How did it happen?"

"She was…" Mathies began, then stopped as emotion overwhelmed him. He pulled out the rag and blotted his eyes again. "Damned leeks," he muttered. He shoved the rag back into his pocket, and his face became contorted with rage. "He ripped her apart!" he shouted. "Like a sabre cat tears a deer! We barely found enough of her to bury!"

Stunned, Marcus could only stare. The child had been _murdered._ This was far worse than losing a child to disease.

"Who did this?" he asked now, carefully controlling his own rage.

"Sinding," Mathies spat. "Came through as a laborer. Seemed like a decent man. He's stewing in the pit while we figure out what to do with him, if you've got the stomach to look at him." He lifted his eyes toward the skies and blinked rapidly.

"I just don't understand what kind of man does that!"

There was nothing Marcus could say to comfort the grieving father. He clapped a hand on Mathies' shoulder and squeezed. Mathies put his own hand on top and squeezed back in appreciation of the gesture.

"You owe me nothing, Mathies," Marcus said finally. "And if I can be of any help to you or your wife, send word to the Dragonborn in Whiterun. I'll do whatever I can."

Mathies eyes widened as he took in, for the first time, the dragonbone armor and the swords strapped to Marcus' hips.

"Dragonborn?" he breathed. Marcus nodded, patted the man's shoulder once more, and turned his steps towards town.

Falkreath wasn't nearly as large as Whiterun, by any stretch of the imagination. The wooden palisade didn't even encompass it completely, relying heavily of the cliffs and bluffs surrounding the town to lend aid to its fortification. All the buildings were made of wood as well, and Marcus saw plenty of evidence of recent dragon attacks. Well, as he often lamented to himself, he was only one Dragonborn, and couldn't be everywhere at once. While a few of the dragons seemed to be listening to Paarthurnax and heeding his advice to follow the Way of the Voice, most preferred to stick with what they knew…terrorizing the local populations of mortals.

There was an apothecary in town, as well as a general goods store and a smithy, but Marcus headed straight to the only Inn in town, the Dead Man's Drink.

Inside, it looked very much like every other tavern in Skyrim, right down to the central fire pit and tables ringing the perimeter.

"Shor's bones!" one woman exclaimed, sidling up to him. "A handsome man in Falkreath!" She ran her hand up and down his arm, lingering on his exposed forearm. She pressed her ample, exposed bosom against him, and subtlely ground herself into his hip. This was quite impressive, he thought obliquely, because of all the tooth-points sticking out of the plates. Or perhaps she just liked that sort of thing. He wasn't blind to the purpose of all the horker teeth he would sometimes find in sleeping chambers of bandit lairs.

"I'm taken," Marcus told her with a smirk. "My wife is a mage, and she's the jealous type."

"Hmph!" the woman snorted, and flounced off in pique. Marcus grinned. He wouldn't tell Tamsyn about this. He doubted she would find the humor in it.

He approached the innkeeper behind the counter. This must be Valga Venicia.

"What can I get you?" she asked brightly. "Food? Drink? A room for the night?"

"Actually, I'm looking for information," he replied, passing a few coins her way. "I'm looking for a place called 'Glenmoril Cave.' Ever hear of it?"

"Glenmoril Cave?" Valga frowned. "You mean the witches cavern?"

 _I'll take that as a 'yes',_ Marcus thought with a private smile.

"That's the place," he answered, keeping his face straight. "How do I get there?"

"Have you got a death wish or something?" Valga asked, horrified. "No one that's ever gone there has ever come back alive!"

"You let me worry about that," Marcus assured her. "Where is it?"

"Straight west of the Half-Moon Mill," Valga answered. "About as far west as you can get in Falkreath without crossing the border over into Hammerfell. Why would you want to go into a place like that?" she asked curiously, her eyes narrowing shrewdly.

"I lost something there," Marcus replied evasively. "And I intend to get it back."

"It's your funeral," Valga shrugged. "Just make sure you stock up on some Resist Magic potions. Zaria over at Grave Concoctions can probably help you out there."

That was probably good advice, Marcus thought to himself. He knew he didn't have any in his pack.

"Thanks," he said. "I'll do that." He tossed her another few coins for the tip, which she caught deftly on the fly, and he left the Inn to head back to the apothecary's he'd passed on his way through town.

Zaria was a Redguard alchemist who cheerfully told Marcus more about the history of Falkreath than he cared to know, including its obsession with death.

"Don't let the shop's name frighten you away," she advised him with a wink. "I have plenty of reliable tonics and healing potions to sell."

 _Okay, I'll bite,_ Marcus shrugged to himself. "Why 'Grave Concoctions'?" he asked.

Zaria grinned, white teeth flashing against her dusky skin. "Falkreath's warriors always return, one way or another," she quipped. "I know it's a bit strange. Not exactly a name to bring comfort to the sick and ailing, is it? But you have to understand that our town is defined, for better or worse, by the large, ancient cemetery here. That's why the Inn is called 'Dead Man's Drink', the farm is 'Corpselight Farm' and so on. I suppose it's a sort of running joke."

"A rather dark, twisted joke, though," Marcus grinned, and Zaria flashed him another smile.

"Now you're getting it," she approved. "Well, here you go. Eight potions to resist magic. It's all I have on hand. I warn you, they're not very strong. If you gave me some time, I might be able to brew up something better."

"These will do just fine," Marcus replied, handing over a small pouch of coins. "I don't intend to give my opponents a chance to hit me."

"Oh?" Zaria asked, a finely arched eyebrow lifting. "What are you up against? Necromancers? Rogue mages?"

"Witches," Marcus said succinctly.

"You mean the Hagravens at Glenmoril Cave?" Zaria asked.

Marcus' face fell. "Hagravens?" he asked.

"Yes," Zaria confirmed. "I thought you knew. The witches of Glenmoril Coven are Hagravens."

"No," Marcus said, troubled. "I didn't know that."

"Oh, well, still, I don't suppose they'd be much trouble for you," Zaria commented blithely. "You look like you can handle yourself pretty well."

Marcus left the shop and stood on the sidewalk outside, still turning it over in his mind. Kodlak hadn't told him the witches were Hagravens. This presently another problem: if he killed the witches, he might jeopardize relations with the Matriarch at Karthspire Camp. What would Maiara say if she knew the Dragonborn had slaughtered her Sisters?

On the other hand, Matriarch Maiara might know of the cure herself, and he might be able to handle the whole situation for Kodlak, Alesan and himself without bloodshed. It was definitely something to think about!

The thought gave him more hope than he'd had in a while, and he resolved to explore that option first.

"No lollygagging," one of the guards warned him, snapping him out of his reverie.

"I haven't gagged any lollies in a long time," he quipped back. The guard turned toward him, and though his face was hidden behind the helmet, Marcus grinned, knowing the man was confused. Behind the guard, he saw the Falkreath jail, and the smile faded as quickly as it had come. Sinding, the man who had killed little Lavinia, was being held there. Feeling his rage mounting, Marcus was determined to find out what had been decided about the man's fate. He resolved to volunteer for the firing squad if necessary.

A few questions inside led him down into the basement level to the Pit, an open cistern with a barred gate keeping one lean, bedraggled-looking man inside.

Marcus tried to recapture the rage he felt fading, but he couldn't. He could smell it on the man, even if the guards couldn't. Sinding was a werewolf, and now Marcus remembered Krev the Skinner telling him about her brother, back at Gallows Rock before Aela had killed her.

A more miserable figure could hardly be found. Barefoot, standing knee-deep in water and stripped to the waist, Sinding's shaggy hair had fallen forward to hide his face. His body was covered with numerous scars, and a ring pulsed with an eerie golden light on the finger of one hand that clasped the opposite arm.

Hearing Marcus approach – or perhaps smelling him – Sinding lifted his head, and Marcus stared into the eyes of a broken man. Misery and grief lay there, as well as resignation about his fate. Despite all the horror he'd felt at Lavinia's death, Marcus felt only pity for the shell of the man behind the bars.

"Come to gawk at the monster?" Sinding asked him heavily.

Marcus swallowed hard. If he hadn't forced Wolf to run straight through Dragon Bridge without stopping, this could have been him.

"I heard you attacked a little girl," he said carefully.

"Believe me, it wasn't anything I wanted to do!" Sinding pleaded with him to understand. "I just…lost control. I tried to tell them, but none of them believe me." Marcus could. He did. He knew all too well the hold Hircine had on his own soul. "It's all on account of this blasted ring," Sinding finished miserably, holding up his hand.

"What is that?" Marcus asked.

"It's the Ring of Hircine," Sinding continued. "I was told it could let me control my transformations. Perhaps it used to, but I'll never know now. Hircine didn't care for my taking it, and threw a curse on it." Sinding paced the confines of the cistern as he spoke. "I put it on, and the changes just came to me. I could never guess when. It would be at the worst time, too, like…with the little girl."

"You're a werewolf," Marcus stated, after listening to hear of any of the guards were close. _Like me,_ he thought, but he didn't say it aloud. No doubt Sinding already knew.

The prisoner nodded. "I don't suppose there's any point in keeping the secret if I'm to die in here anyway," he said morosely. "I am a werewolf. It's my secret, and my shame. That's why I wanted the ring. It was said to give men like me control."

"But it didn't," Marcus surmised.

"No," Sinding agreed. "Since Hircine put the curse on it, I never know when the change will happen. Now I may look like a man, but I still feel the animal inside of me, as strong as ever. You understand, don't you?" It was a loaded question that begged for confirmation as much as understanding.

Marcus nodded. "I do understand," he replied shortly. "What will you do now? The guards aren't going to let you go."

Sinding sighed and ran a hand through his shaggy, unkempt hair. The dark circles around his eyes seemed magnified by dimness of the cistern. The only light was the sunlight that filtered down through the grate overhead.

"I've been looking for a way to appease Hircine," Sinding finally said. "I've heard there's a certain beast in these lands; large, majestic, and sacred to Hircine. It's said that he will commune with whoever is able to slay it. I tracked it into these woods, but then had my…accident with the child."

In frustration, Sinding pounded the stone wall. "I want to beg his forgiveness," he railed, close to tears. "I want to give him back his cursed ring, but while I'm stuck in here, the beast wanders free."

Several things went through Marcus' mind at this point. The first was that while what Sinding had done as a werewolf was appalling, he was not to blame for the death of Lavinia. That evil lay at Hircine's door. The Daedric Prince was the one who had cursed the Ring, causing Sinding to lose control. In all probability, Hircine had wanted to punish Sinding as much as possible for taking his artifact.

The second thing he considered was that if Kodlak was correct, that the witches of Glenmoril knew of a cure, then it was also quite possible Matriarch Maiara knew of it as well, and might be willing to share the knowledge with him. If he could get the cure without bloodshed, he might be able to save Sinding, and that thought pleased him no end. It would be another way for him to stick it to Hircine.

And finally, the third thing he thought was the ramifications of Hircine's Ring being out here where it would affect and possibly hurt someone else. It wouldn't be the first Daedric artifact he'd ever dealt with. Their power was not to be discounted lightly, he knew. While he had lost Mephala's Blade and returned Meridia's Beacon to her Shrine, Tamsyn still retained the Sanguine Rose – which she _still_ would not explain how she obtained – and the Wabbajack, which Cicero had given to her, stating he preferred his daggers, as fun as the staff had been. There was also a mysterious book she kept in her quarters at the College, which looked unnervingly as though the cover had been stitched together from the tanned skins of man and mer. She had categorically refused to open it, but had locked it away in her chest there. Marcus was smart enough not to ask questions he knew she wouldn't answer.

Without even realizing it, he decided to help Sinding now. "I can take the Ring to Hircine," he offered. It would give him a good opportunity to give the Daedric Prince a piece of his mind.

"Oh my," Sinding said faintly, coming closer to the barred gate. "You would do this for me?"

 _I owe you that much for the death of your sister,_ Marcus thought privately, but said nothing aloud. Eagerly, Sinding put his hand through the bars.

"Here," he offered. "Take it! I don't want anything to do with this wretched thing anymore!"

Marcus had only intended to slip the ring off the man's finger, but somehow it ended up on his own. He knew full well he hadn't put it on himself. He pulled at it, but it wouldn't come off.

 _Figures,_ he thought sourly. _Sonofabitch!_

"Seek out the beast," Sinding said now, a curious expression crossing his face. It was as though he was fighting an inner war with himself. Marcus knew that feeling all too well, and he could smell the beastblood rising on the breeze that wafted down from above. Sinding was changing. It was probably Hircine's last curse at him.

"He wanders these woods," Sinding gasped, staggering back to the far wall. "Bring him down and…well…the Lord of the Hunt should smile on you."

 _Only if he's gloating,_ Marcus thought. _Otherwise, I seriously doubt it._

"I wish you luck," Sinding said, doubling over, hair already sprouting all over his body. "But I should leave here now while I still have my skin. Should our paths cross again, I will remember your kindness. Farewell!"

As he finished speaking, the transformation was complete, and a werewolf stood where the man had once been. Easily, the man-beast clawed his way up the stone wall of the cistern, and Marcus heard a metallic _clang_ as he forced open the iron grating above, disappearing out of sight.

 _This isn't going to look good, Marcus,_ he thought suddenly. _Time to get out of here._

He almost made it to the stairs when one of the guards called out, "The prisoner has escaped!"

Another reached for him, but missed, saying, "You there! You were seen talking to him right before he escaped. Are you responsible for that?"

"No!" Marcus growled harshly. "Next time put him in a proper cell instead of an open cistern!"

He didn't stay to hear any more, but left the barracks and headed west out of town, looking for a large enough clearing to call Odahviing down. After all, there was no point in agitating the townspeople any further by calling down a dragon upon them, even if he _was_ bound to the Dragonborn.

A short way out of town he found a crossroad that would suffice, but as he inhaled he heard a voice that seemed to come from _inside_ his head.

" _You!"_ the voice cried happily. _"You are exactly what I was looking for!"_

It certainly wasn't Akatosh's voice, and Marcus realized once more how badly he missed his patron. It wasn't Hircine's either, however, and while that pleased him, it also puzzled him. He looked around, but there was no one on the road except a rather homely, shaggy-looking dog.

Well, there were stranger things in Skyrim, as he was still learning.

"Did you just speak?" he asked the dog, not really expecting a reply.

" _Sheesh,"_ came the voice as the dog sat down and cocked his head to one side. _"Skyrim is now host to giant, flying lizards and two-legged cat-men…and you're surprised by me?"_ The dog snorted and shook his head. _"Yeah, I just talked, and am continuing to do so. You see, my name is Barbas, and I have…a problem I think you can help sort out."_

"What sort of problem?" Marcus asked, still not sure he was really talking to a talking dog.

" _My master and I had a….bit of a falling out,"_ Barbas confessed sheepishly. _"We got into an argument and it got rather….eh…heated."_ A tone of indignation crept into the voice. _"He's kicked me out until I find someone who can settle our disagreement. That's where you come in!"_ The dog wagged his tail hopefully.

In spite of himself and all his problems, Marcus chuckled. "Aww…so you're a little lost puppy, eh?"

" _Yeah, very funny,"_ Barbas growled sourly. _"My master is Clavicus Vile, Daedric Prince of Wishes. As you can imagine, he's quite the important person."_

"Sounds easy enough," Marcus replied. "But I've got a few things on my plate right now."

" _I know, I know!"_ Barbas placated, getting up and wagging his tail. _"Wars to fight, dragons to confront, guild business to conduct. Listen, when you're ready to do something useful, find me outside Haemar's Shame, in Falkreath."_

With that, Barbas turned and trotted off down the road. Marcus wondered if this was the "dog" the guard had been looking for on the blacksmith's behalf. If so, neither of them had any idea what they were getting themselves into. Still, once he took care of his more immediate concerns, it probably wouldn't hurt to get on the good side of a Daedric Prince who granted wishes.

He called Odahviing and when the great red dragon arrived, directed him to fly him to Karthspire Camp. It was a place he had been to frequently in the past year and a half, usually by way of Odahviing, and the Reachfolk there now knew the dragon by sight and withheld any attack. Requesting an audience with the Matriarch, Marcus was ushered into her presence immediately.

"It is good to see you again, Dragonborn," she greeted him, feathers ruffling in the light breeze. Her claws clacked on the stones in front of her wickiup. "What brings you to see me today."

"I have a dilemma I was hoping you might be able to help me with," Marcus began, and finished by telling her everything that had happened since Alesan had been turned.

"I could smell the curse on you," Maiara frowned, examining the Ring of Hircine on Marcus' hand. "This is very serious indeed. The sooner you confront Hircine about this, the quicker the matter can be resolved."

"You can't remove the curse?" Marcus asked, his heart sinking.

Maiara shook her head, her black eyes expressing no emotion, but her tone was consoling. "Only Hircine can do that, Marcus," she said kindly. "I am probably one of the most powerful Matriarchs in the Reach, but I cannot undo what a Daedric Prince has done."

"What about the lycanthropy?" Marcus asked. "Was Kodlak right about there being a cure?"

"He was," Maiara said, her voice hardening a little, but the anger was not directed at Marcus. "But it requires the power of the ones who laid the curse upon the Companions. I cannot undo it."

"Then I'm sunk," Marcus said in resignation. "There's no way to save my son, or myself."

"I did not say that," the Matriarch reprimanded him. "The witches must pay for their betrayal!"

"What?" he blinked in surprise.

"It was ill-done," she continued. "The witches at Glenmoril have always acted on their own. They are no part of the Sisterhood of Matriarchs here in the Reach. They set themselves apart from us centuries ago. Here, we only wish to be left alone, to follow the Old Gods our own way. We use our powers as the Old Ones intended, to help our people. The witches of Glenmoril only wish to trick, to harm. They are our enemies!" she declared with some venom.

Marcus felt a weight lift off his chest. "Then you would have no qualms about me having to kill them to get to the cure?" he asked.

"They are traitors," Maiara hissed. "Kill those bitches!"

In the end, Marcus decided to resolve the matter with Hircine first. He knew he needed to deal with the witches as well, but he didn't want what had happened to Sinding to happen to him. He had Odahviing fly him back to Falkreath and land outside of town, where he had before. It was only just in time, he realized, as he felt the change come over him.

This time, however, instead of being repulsed by the violence of Wolf and retreating from him, he kept a firmer hand on his alter-ego and guided him out of town, up the road which ran parallel to the village to the south. Along the way he managed to avoid most travelers on the road, but could not avoid bandits, spriggans and a dragon that dropped down on him out of nowhere. It was odd that he found he could absorb the dragon's soul even while in wolf form, but he was unable to retrieve the bones and scales. He simply had no place to keep them, and the huge, clawed paws at the ends of his arms were never meant for fine motor skills. Eventually, and due to the efforts on Marcus' part to deny Wolf the hearts of his prey that seemed to prolong the effects of lycanthropy, Marcus reverted to human form in a hidden glade and took back control of his mind. He felt only marginally better that the only people he had killed were bandits, but at least this time he wasn't filled with self-loathing.

He spent some time getting his bearings, and realized he wasn't far from the woods Sinding had mentioned as the location of the great beast sacred to Hircine. It took most of the afternoon, however to track the beast down, and when he finally found it, Marcus was surprised to find it in the pale form of a great white hart. He had expected something more along the lines of a gigantic werewolf.

Hircine appeared almost immediately after he shot the hind down. The creature's ghost loomed over its still body, and Hircine spoke – this time, it wasn't in his head.

"So, Dragonborn, we meet at last in the flesh…as it were," the Daedric Prince drawled, amused.

"I expected something different," Marcus admitted, with an air of feigned disappointment.

"I am the spirit of the hunt," Hircine reprimanded severely. "Just one glimpse of the glorious stalker that your kind calls Hircine. You have summoned me by killing my stag. Dare I ask what it is you wish?"

"You know damned well what I want," Marcus snapped.

"I do indeed, Dragonborn," Hircine replied smoothly. "Just as I know I will not release you as long as you carry the beastblood. You took the form willingly—"

"I wasn't given much choice!" Marcus replied hotly. "I did what I did to save my son."

"Commendable," the Daedric Prince sneered, "but it will not release you from my power. Still, you have succeeded in tracking down and killing my sacred beast, so I am honor-bound to offer you some kind of reward."

"Do Daedric Princes even _have_ honor?" Marcus bit out.

"Have a care, Dragonborn," Hircine warned. "Know that I am in your mind and in your blood. I can make the beast rise to the surface any time I choose."

And indeed, though it hadn't been long since Wolf had made an appearance, Marcus could feel the heat rising again.

"No!" he pleaded, beaten for now. "We're too close to town. The people there…"

Hircine gave a laugh, and it was not a pleasant one. "They would come together to kill you," he gloated. "And your soul would then be mine for eternity. It _is_ tempting…"

Marcus fought the panic that welled within him, striving to keep Wolf from escaping the tenuous hold he had on him.

All at once the feeling subsided, and Hircine continued. "But I am not done playing with you just yet," he smirked. "Ask for some other reward, but do not attempt to toy with me or resist my power over you."

There was a dangerous edge to Hircine's voice that Marcus felt would be wiser to heed. "The Ring," he said now, subdued. "Can you remove the curse from it….please?"

Hircine seemed smugly satisfied at this change in the Dragonborn's demeanor. "I may consider it," he said graciously. "But you must first do a service for my glory."

"What do I have to do?" Marcus asked, thinking it might have been better to tackle the witches first.

"The one who stole the Ring has fled to what he thinks is his sanctuary, at Bloated Man's Grotto," Hircine replied. "Just as a bear climbs a tree to escape the hunt, but only ends up trapping himself. Seek out this rogue shifter. Tear the skin from his body, and make it an offering to me."

"Sinding?" Marcus gasped. "I'll admit what he did was terrible…horrible, even. But even you have to admit it wasn't his fault. He didn't want to kill the little girl. And he hasn't offered me any harm. I can't kill him!"

"There is no retribution in the hunt," Hircine intoned. "It is not vengeance I seek, but the blood course of a living hunt. If you will not do this, there are others on his trail who will," the Daedric Prince continued callously. "I have marked the place on your map. But do not delay too long in making your decision, or it shall be made for you by those more worthy of my favor." The ghostly form of the stag vanished, and Marcus pulled out his map, finding the grotto marked with a rune which glowed until he looked at it, where it promptly faded to an ordinary mark. Hircine wanted to make certain his "toy" knew where he was expected to go.

Moreover, the Prince had as much as admitted there were others hunting Sinding who would have no qualms about killing the werewolf. Muttering under his breath about what Daedric Princes in general could do with their precious artifacts and quests, Marcus summoned Odahviing and together they winged their way over the outcropping of mountains to the north of Lake Ilinalta to land on the west road which marked Whiterun Hold on the north side and Falkreath Hold on the south. Bloated Man's Grotto lay a couple of miles off the road up in the foothills, and Marcus trekked his way in, drawing his swords as a precaution. He really didn't know what he might find in here.

Night had fallen by the time he had arrived at the grotto, and Masser had already risen, but tonight it had taken on an ominous shade of red, illuminating the glade with an angry, crimson light.

A coughing noise ahead alerted him to the fact there was someone in the clearing beyond the mouth of the tunnel that led to the interior. Investigating further, he found a scene of carnage that was all too familiar. Three bodies with their hearts ripped out lay scattered around a campfire. At one side, leaning against a rock, mortally wounded, a Khajiit was gasping out his last.

"Did the Bloodmoon call you, hunter?" he wheezed. He didn't wait for an answer, seeming determined to caution this newcomer before he died. "The prey is strong," he gasped. "Stronger than the hunters. But more will come." His eyes finally seem to focus on Marcus kneeling beside him. "Bring him down, hunter! For the glories of Lord Hircine!" With a final gasp, the Khajiit slumped and died. Had Tamsyn been here, she might have been able to save him, but Marcus was no Healer.

The prey. That could only mean Sinding. He wondered how the other hunters could have gotten here so quickly. It had only taken an hour or so for Odahviing to fly him here. Either these other hunters had already been in the area, or Hircine was cheating. Marcus was betting on the latter.

With nothing further to do here, Marcus pushed on into the grotto.

"You!" came a familiar voice from somewhere above. Marcus looked up to see Sinding as he had last seen him – as a werewolf – standing on a rock high above him. "Why are you here?"

"Hircine wants me to kill you," Marcus admitted truthfully. Sinding deserved to know that much, at least.

"And I would deserve it, wouldn't I?" Sinding said, slumping, defeated. "I can't stop you if that's what you want to do. Hircine is too powerful. But…" He paused, as if a thought had occurred to him. "If you spare me, I can be a powerful ally to you. And I would promise to never return to civilized life. I know now that I can't live among people."

Marcus considered this. Sparing Sinding would certainly be spitting in Hircine's face, but he worried about the consequences. Would Hircine remove the curse from the Ring if he defied the Prince? Or would he, like Sinding, be cursed to lycanthropy until he could find a cure, never knowing when the change might come over him?

He didn't want to remove himself from society. He couldn't afford to do that. So killing Sinding might be the only way to appease Hircine. On the other hand, the last thing he wanted to do was suck up to a Daedric Prince, especially one as amoral as Hircine. Though it might be tenuous dealing with people for the next few days, Kodlak had seemed convinced he was on the verge of a cure. And he might just be able to cure Sinding as well.

That clinched it for him, as Sinding seemed to be waiting for a decision from him. "I would appreciate your help," he told the werewolf, and Sinding visibly relaxed.

"Thank the gods!" he breathed. "Now, let's deal with these other hunters! We hunt together!"

The words had a triggering effect on Marcus, and he felt the change coming over him. This time he didn't resist. How ironic would it be to defy Hircine using the form he'd been cursed with? He waited until the transformation was complete, then leaped up the stairs to join Sinding. They howled together, and Marcus could smell the fear of the prey on the wind. He let Wolf take over, not even stopping him from feeding on the hearts, and in a very short time the only living things left in the grotto were two blood-smeared werewolves.

"Thank you for your help," Sinding said as they approached the tunnel entrance. "I will make my home here, away from anyone I might hurt."

"Actually," Marcus replied, finding that he could indeed speak in this form, as Aela told him he could. "I may have need of you soon." He quickly skimmed over his plans regarding the Glenmoril Witches, and Sinding sighed.

"I will gladly help you with this venture," he said. "Call me when you are ready and I will fight by your side."

"Let's go right now," Marcus said. "It's really not that far away for a couple of werewolves, at the rate we can run."

Sinding agreed, and the two left the cave together, but they hadn't gone far at all when the Aspect of Hircine appeared to them both.

"Well done, hunters!" he praised them both, seeming to forget his past annoyance with both werewolves. "You have served me well, and I am pleased by your offerings."

"What do you mean?" Marcus growled. "I didn't kill Sinding, here."

"That is of no importance," Hircine replied. "By bringing down my other Hunters, you turned the chase inside out. And they were no base prey." He seemed to chuckle. "You continue to amuse and impress, both of you. Go forth with my blessing." With no further explanation, Hircine vanished.

"What did he mean, 'his blessing'?" Marcus asked Sinding, suddenly finding himself reverting back to human form.

"Try taking the Ring off now," Sinding suggested. Marcus found that he could. "My guess is that he lifted the curse from it," Sinding said.

"Maybe you should have it, then," Marcus said. "It might help you to control your changes now."

Sinding backed up, waving his front paws. "No, sir! Not me! I was serious when I said I don't want anything to do with it again!"

"But what about your unpredictable changes?" Marcus asked.

"I'll deal with them," Sinding answered gruffly. "Let's kill the witches so you can take their heads. If you can find a cure, I'd be in your debt."

Marcus nodded. "Yeah, well, it seems that only one of us is a werewolf now. This trip is going to take longer than I planned."

"One of the powers of Hircine's Ring is the ability to control your transformations," Sinding told him. "At least, that's what I've heard, anyway."

Marcus frowned. _How much control?_ he wondered.

 _More than once per day, Dragonborn,_ Hircine spoke inside his mind. _Am I right in thinking the idea appeals to you?_

Refusing to rise to the bait, Marcus didn't reply, but concentrated on the Ring, feeling the heated rush of the bloodlust rise once more. Yet, though the power was there, and he let it wash over him, it was different this time. He was in control. He could use Wolf's strength and abilities, yet not be a prisoner of them. He was still Marcus; he was just Marcus in werewolf form.

"So it does work!" Sinding marveled.

"Apparently so," Marcus agreed. "Come on, let's go!"

Together they ran west and south for the rest of the night, Marcus following the path in his mind where he had marked Glenmoril Cave on his map. The eastern sky was barely turning pink when the two lycanthropes stopped outside the cave to rest.

"This is the place?" Sinding asked, reverting quickly to human form. He was still half-naked with no weapons. Marcus reverted as well, but at least he had his gear with him.

"It is," Marcus nodded. "Do we need to lay up here until you can go wolf again?"

"I'm afraid so," Sinding replied. "At least I know the change won't come over me unexpectedly anymore. But I'll be of no use to you inside without my wolf form."

"I could lend you some of my armor," Marcus offered. "And I can fight with one sword as easily as with two."

"But I can't fight very well even with those things," Sinding admitted. "I was…a thief before all this happened. I really only knew how to use a dagger, and not very well. When I…became a werewolf for the first time, I lost everything I held dear, my wife and children, my parents, my sister. I murdered my wife and children when the rage came over me the first time." His eyes were haunted as he spoke. "My parents didn't know it was me and with the other villagers, drove me out of our village. My sister, Krev, thought I had been dragged away and killed, too, and turned her every passion into killing werewolves." He drew a ragged sigh. "When I finally confronted her in human form and tried to explain, she turned against me and tried to kill me, too. I ran away, rather than hurt my own sister, since I could feel the rage building in me, and knew it wouldn't take much for me to 'go wolf', as you call it."

"Sinding," Marcus began slowly, "about your sister…"

"What about her?" Sinding asked, perking up. "She's still alive, isn't she?"

Marcus took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "No, Sinding, she's not, and I'm sorry."

"What happened?" his companion breathed.

Marcus told him about Krev and the Silver Hand, about his attempts to rescue Alesan, and Aela's reaction. "I would have stopped her, if I had known she would do that," he apologized. "But your sister was prepared to kill my boy, and I couldn't sit still for that."

Sinding sat silent for several moments.

"She's not the girl I remember growing up with," he said finally. "She was prepared to kill me, too. I know she was close with Anna, my wife. They'd grown up together. I think Krev became…unbalanced by the deaths. She never accepted that I was horrified by what I had done. She seemed to think that I had changed when I became a werewolf. I hadn't. Not really. It was Krev who changed. She became…" Sinding floundered, searching for the right word.

"Inflexible?" Marcus suggested.

"I suppose that will do," Sinding nodded. "She couldn't…or wouldn't…make exceptions or allowances. She told me I was no longer her brother, and if I came near her again, she would cut me down like the dog I was. Harsh words for a man to hear from his own family."

Marcus shifted uncomfortably. Thankfully his own family hadn't turned on him yet, but he also hadn't offered them any harm.

"For what it's worth," he said finally, "I'm sorry about your sister. I would have prevented it if I could. I had almost convinced her to trust me."

"I know, Marcus," Sinding said, clasping wrists with him. "And for that, I'm grateful. If you don't mind, I need to go off by myself for a bit. I'll be back by sundown."

So saying, Sinding headed down the hill and disappeared into the trees. Marcus could do nothing at this point but wait for the man. While he knew he could probably clean out the cave by himself, he had promised Sinding this part in helping to find a cure that would benefit him. He also hoped to convince the man to come back to Whiterun with him. He felt pretty sure the Companions would accept him with no questions.

It was almost noon before Sinding returned. Marcus heard him and caught his scent before he saw him. He had returned to wolf form.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"I will be, in time," Sinding replied soberly. "I'm eager to put this all behind me, though. Let's kill the witches and be done with it."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Marcus responded, and allowed himself to slip into wolfen form. It became easier each time he did it, and that worried him not a little.

"This way," he growled, sniffing the air carefully before plunging into the cave.

The acrid smell assaulted them both almost as soon as they entered. So strong was it that their eyes began watering almost immediately.

"Faugh!" Marcus whuffed. "What _is_ that noxious odor?"

"Frostbite spiders," Sinding replied in a low mutter. "Outside it's bad enough. In here, with no wind to blow the stink away, it's worse."

Marcus heard the tell-tale clatter of claws on stone before he saw the form of the Hagraven shuffling around the main chamber.

"I'll get the spider," Sinding offered. "You take out the witch. Watch out for her fire spells."

"Noted," Marcus nodded, and leaped forward.

The witch heard his thudding pad of paws on stone and reflexively sent a blast of fire his way. He dodged it and bounded toward her, leaping over her second shot and landing on her, savaging her with his powerful jaws. Wolf ripped her heart out and consumed it whole, still pulsing and beating, and Marcus tried to remind himself that these were the same witches who had cursed the Companions and betrayed the Matriarchs. He didn't rein Wolf in.

So it went through the cave, chamber after chamber. Sinding dealt with the spiders while Marcus dealt with the witches. When finally it was done, Marcus reverted back to his human form. Sinding still could not.

"Hey, it doesn't smell quite so bad in here now," Marcus commented.

Sinding's lip curled. "Speak for yourself. Your human nose, even while it's more sensitive than a non-werewolf, isn't nearly as keen as when you're in wolf form."

"Would you like to step outside for a breath of fresh air?" Marcus grinned.

"Please, and thank you," Sinding whuffed in a semblance of a chuckle. He retreated, leaving Marcus the gruesome task of severing the witches' heads from their bodies. He stuffed them into a burlap sack he found as he systematically looted the place of its valuables. There wasn't much here, but every little bit helped. He still wasn't sure how the severed heads were going to cure him of his lycanthropy, but he didn't really need to know. Kodlak knew, and that was good enough for him.

Marcus emerged from the cave to see Sinding waiting for him.

"I've got to get these back to Whiterun, to the Harbinger," he said, hefting the bag, "before they start…uh…ripening on me. Will you come with me? I'm pretty sure the Companions would accept you into their ranks."

But Sinding shook his head. "No, Marcus, I can't. But thank you for asking. Until I'm cured, I'm a danger to everyone I meet."

"You haven't been a danger to me," Marcus insisted.

"You're like me," Sinding said simply. "We're both werewolves. And I owe you my life. Even if the blood was high, I would not hurt you. But I cannot be tempted by being around ordinary people who would fear me. Fear brings up the blood lust. And right now, I cannot change back to human form at will. The curse of Hircine is still upon me. When you find the cure, come and find me, and I will go wherever you lead. Until then, I will stay at the grotto."

So saying, Sinding loped off until he vanished into the forest. Marcus tightened his jaw, more determined than ever to find the cure. He strode out to a large clearing and called Odahviing, ordering him to fly him back to Whiterun. The trip took less than half an hour, as the dragon flew, and Marcus hurried into town with his odd baggage.

He was feeling pretty good about himself until he reached the Wind District and saw the crowd gathered outside Jorrvaskr. Aela and Torvar were kneeling over bodies lying on the ground. The silver weapons kicked to one side told him everything he needed to know.

"At least this one won't kill any more of us," Aela choked, her eyes streaming unashamedly with tears.

Marcus sprinted inside, nearly running into Vilkas. Beyond him, Farkas and Njada were kneeling next to the still, lifeless form of the Harbinger.

"No!" Marcus breathed, his heart falling to his stomach. His knees suddenly felt weak, and he would have collapsed himself had not Vilkas rounded on him.

"Where in blazes have you been?" he demanded. "We could have used your help here!"

The injustice of his tone made Marcus stiffen. "I was out doing a mission for Kodlak," he snarled. "How could I have known this might happen?"

"How, indeed?" Vilkas snapped back. "I heard about the trip you and Aela took to Gallows Rock. You took more lives than repayment of Skjor's demanded."

"And Kodlak already reamed me a new one for that, Vilkas," Marcus shouted back. The floor trembled dangerously. "You're not the Harbinger, so back off!"

Surprisingly, Vilkas did just that. "Well," he conceded, "I hope that mission the old man gave you was worth it. But right now Kodlak's death needs to be avenged. I managed to get one of these bastards to tell me where their hide-out is before he didn't need his throat for speaking any longer. I'm going there to avenge our dead! And you're not going to stop me!"

Marcus knew Kodlak wouldn't want this, but he also knew he wouldn't be able to stop the hot-headed wolf twin. Vilkas was a hair's-breadth away from going wolf right now. Only the fact that others outside the Circle were present held him in check.

"No," Marcus said finally. "I'm not going to stop you. I'm going with you. We'll avenge Kodlak together. We'll make sure the Silver Hand can't hurt anyone ever again."

He turned to Farkas, still kneeling next to Kodlak's body, and shoved the burlap sack into his arms. "Put these somewhere safe," he told the big Nord. "Somewhere cool and dark. They're perishable."

"Huh?" Farkas asked, looking at his brother. "They're what?"

"He means they'll spoil, 'Kas," his twin said shortly, not knowing what the bag contained and caring less. "Put them in the meat locker downstairs."

"And tell Tilma to leave them alone or she'll have me to deal with," Marcus added for good measure.

"Sure, okay," Farkas shrugged, opening the bag. "What are they—Shor's nuts!" The big man paled and closed the bag again quickly before Njada could peek in. "Sheesh! Warn a guy next time, willya? I'll go put these away. No, Njada, trust me," he said, shooing her away. "You don't wanna know!"

If the situation hadn't been so serious, Marcus might have laughed. But all he could think of right now was, _Kodlak's dead. The secret died with him. I'm a werewolf for life now._

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Hircine was laughing at him.

* * *

"Cis, are you sure this is the right way?" Argis whispered.

"Of course I'm sure, Argis!" the little jester murmured. "And don't whisper! Whispers carry in places like this. Keep your voice low, like me." The façade of the jester was gone again. This was Cicero as he truly was, though perhaps not quite as insane as he had once been. Time spent with Thane Marcus and Lady Tamsyn had done much to restore his sanity, Argis thought. That could only be a good thing.

He didn't like these subterranean tunnels, but Cicero had assured him it was the only way to reach the person they needed to see.

"Are you sure he'll help us?" Argis muttered in a low voice.

"Well…no," Cicero admitted. "It's been many years since I was last here, and I'm sure the leadership has changed since then. But I did the Guild a favor once or twice, so they owe me. There may not be any honor among thieves, but the Guild always repays its debts."

"How did you meet them?" Argis asked, curious. There was still so much about his lover he didn't know, and while he ordinarily would never consider consorting with shady characters, he could no longer deny how Cicero made him feel when they were together, so he was willing to give the man a pass on his past.

"Oh, it was business, my boy," Cicero said, in an off-hand manner. "The Guild doesn't take lives, they only take _things._ However, there are times when it's good to know someone who can…make unpleasant people disappear. So they would call in the Brotherhood. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"And you…how did you put it earlier…'offed' a few people for them?" Argis tried to keep the censure from his voice, and very nearly succeeded.

Cicero stopped and turned to look at his lover. "Does it upset you that I took lives?" he asked.

Argis immediately shook his head. "No, Cis," he said firmly. "I've taken lives, too. Usually in the service of someone, or if I was part of a group of mercs hired for security. Not a lot lately, though, since I became Housecarl to Thane Marcus."

"And I only took lives in the service of the Dread Father," Cicero said firmly. "It was business, nothing more, nothing less. And while I respect dear Marcus and sweet Tamsyn for their desire to find alternate solutions instead of violence, I think we both know there are times when the only way to pay a debt is with blood."

"I know, Cis," Argis soothed. "I wasn't criticizing. I just wanted to make sure we'd be welcomed with an open handshake when we get there, not a knife in the back."

"Oh, my dear, sweet boy," Cicero snickered. "You don't think I'd walk in there unannounced, do you? I sent word ahead before we came."

Argis blinked. "How?" he asked. "We didn't stop for anything on the way here, except…" His voice trailed off and he realized they had, indeed, stopped once, when Cicero gave a few coins to a beggar in the street. "That was no beggar, was he?" he asked shrewdly.

Again, Cicero chuckled quietly. "You're learning, my boy," he said. "But in fact, that _was_ a beggar who just _happened_ to have connections to the Thieves' Guild."

Argis shook his head, smiling. "Brynjolf should have such a network," he muttered.

The two men said nothing more for a long time until they came to a door with a barred window. A sliding door on the other side hid the interior of the chamber from their view. Cicero tapped on the door in a specific sequence and after a moment, the panel slid open.

"Password," came a female voice.

"Grey Fox," Cicero replied.

"Just a moment," the woman said. The panel slid shut once more, and after a few moments they heard locks rattling before the door swung open. The corridor beyond was dark and quiet.

"Nice and easy into the room," the woman ordered. "Hands away from your sides."

The two men moved as directed and waited as the door clanged shut behind them.

"State your business," the woman's voice said now, and it seemed to Argis that it echoed around the room, impossible to pin-point its origin.

"We are here to see the Grey Fox," Cicero said. "Tell him it's urgent, and that Cicero is calling in a favor."

"Cicero?" said a man's voice. "We don't know anyone named Cicero—"

"I'm handling this, Garibaldi," the woman said sharply. "Get back to your post."

"I don't take orders from you, Minnow," Garibaldi snorted.

"You do when the boss puts me in charge," Minnow snapped. "Now get back to your post or explain to the boss why you're missing three fingers."

"I'm not miss—" Garibaldi began, but stopped. "Fine," he sulked. "But if they gut you, don't expect me to clean up the mess." Footsteps retreated into the darkness, and Minnow spoke again.

"Wait here," she said. More footsteps retreated, and somewhere Argis and Cicero heard a door open and close.

"Trouble in the ranks?" Argis murmured.

Cicero shrugged, though he knew Argis couldn't see it in the dim light. "It happens," the little Imperial said. "There are always those who refuse to accept authority from someone who is more capable than they are, but who hasn't been around as long."

"How do you know that's what's going on?"

"Cicero could tell by the voices," Cicero explained. His use of the third person told Argis immediately that Cicero didn't think they were completely alone. "Minnow's voice was young, but very confident. That tells me she's very good at what she does, and has probably risen through the ranks quickly. Garibaldi, on the other hand, sounded older; his voice was a bit more gravelly. He clearly resented Minnow. Probably wanted her position, but didn't get it. He challenged her, but backed down from her implied threat. Most likely he knew from experience that she would follow through on it. And because he backed down, it showed he's probably at a certain level within the Guild, and not likely to rise any higher."

"Very good, Cicero," a man's voice congratulated him. "You're very perceptive, even without the use of your eyes. I'm impressed."

Argis cast his eyes around the chamber, but could see nothing. Cicero, on the other hand, relaxed and shifted his weight to one hip, folding his arms across his chest. "Is Cicero addressing the Grey Fox?" he asked.

"Perhaps," the man said, "and perhaps not. A better question is the one I ask you: what do you want from him? Minnow said you're calling in a favor, but we don't recall any favors extended to you."

"Oh, it's been a long time since that promise was made," Cicero said cheerily enough, but Argis could tell the jester was tense and nervous. What if this all went bad? What if the Guild refused to honor the debt? Argis wished, not for the first time, that Tamsyn had allowed them to accompany her.

"Indeed?" said the man. "And what makes you think we would honor a promise made so long ago?"

"Because it wouldn't be very good publicity for your Guild if you did otherwise," Cicero said smoothly. "You certainly wouldn't want any…black marks…against you." There was a deliberate pause in Cicero's voice as he spoke; one that their unknown observer couldn't fail to miss. And indeed, there was a long pause after Cicero spoke.

"I thought your…organization…was wiped out?" said the man carefully.

"Not quite," Cicero said, with more confidence than he felt. "We're…rebuilding. Are you going to talk to us face to face?" he asked now. "Cicero finds it very difficult to talk to someone he can't see."

There was another long pause, then the man said, "Minnow will bring you to me."

True to his word, a door opened and closed somewhere and they heard footsteps approaching. As they drew nearer, Argis realized that light, coming from somewhere along the base of the walls, was gradually becoming brighter. A thin, waif-like figure approached and stopped in front of them. Clad all in gray leather, with daggers strapped around her in every visible place, she gave them a slight, sardonic bow. "I'm Minnow," she said shortly. "Come with me."

She led them through a veritable maze of corridors that all looked identical. Ahead and behind them, Argis could hear stone sliding on stone. When he looked back in the dim light, he saw nothing but blank walls, though he knew they had turned corners to get here.

"Don't bother trying to find your way out," Minnow said, not looking back. "It's called a 'maze' for a reason."

Argis gave a frustrated sigh and resigned himself to being – to all intents and purposes – a prisoner of the Thieves Guild until they saw fit to release him. Or kill him, if it came to that. Though if they tried, he vowed he would take as many of them with him to Sovngarde as possible.

 _Except they're thieves, so they probably wouldn't end up in Sovngarde,_ he thought.

As they moved through the maze, the light from floor level grew gradually brighter and brighter, and Argis realized this was more for the benefit of the Guild members than for anyone coming to visit. Moving from pitch darkness to bright light too quickly could injure the eyes, he knew. It also made it difficult to focus right away as they eyes adjusted to the change. The Guild members probably needed a more gradual change to avoid that problem, and since most of their activities were carried out at night, it made sense for the corridors to move them from the brightness of the interior chambers to the near blackness of the city at night.

After several minutes they finally emerged into a large chamber that appeared to be some sort of underground ruin.

"By the Void!" Cicero exclaimed. "We must be in one of the Ayleid ruins!"

"That would be correct, Cicero," said the man's voice they had heard before, and the two men turned to see a Breton sitting at a desk not far from a flight of stairs leading up to a mezzanine which circumnavigated the chamber. There were filigree gates leading to other corridors off to either side and the back, but most of the other people in the room seemed content to stay near the fire, or practice with their bows and blades at the far end. A few were sleeping on bedrolls beyond the stairs.

Argis took a long look at the man who rose to greet them. Dressed in the grey leather armor of the Guild, his was a style unlike the others, and a hood of the same grey leather covered his head, reaching below his eyes, which were almost the same pale shade. Dark hair was tied securely behind his head, flowing down the middle of his back, and a neat, trim goatee-style beard and moustache surrounded his mouth, which seemed to be quirked in a permanent smirk. He was well-muscled, and did not appear to be older than thirty, if the lack of grey hairs in his beard was any indication.

As he approached them, Argis could see that while the Breton towered over Cicero, he was still almost a full head shorter than himself.

"Welcome to the Thieves' Guild of the Imperial City," the man said, smiling. "I am the Guildmaster. But most people know me as the Grey Fox. Won't you please sit down?"

He indicated some comfortable-looking chairs near his desk and waited until they were seated before reclaiming his place at his desk. He templed his fingers together and smiled over them at the two men from Skyrim.

"Now," said the Guildmaster. "Let's discuss this 'favor' you think we owe you, shall we?"

"There's no question about it," Cicero said firmly. "Cicero did a few favors for your Guild before the Great War, before he…er…left Cyrodiil," he finished hurriedly. "There was always an…understanding between our organizations, that these favors would be reciprocated without question."

"Most assuredly," said the Grey Fox smoothly. Whatever he may have thought of the motley-dressed Imperial who spoke of himself in the third person, his face never revealed. He was all business and courtesy. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. A favor usually involves a token. One that can be used to prove the claim is legitimate. Surely you wouldn't expect us to help you without first making sure the claim was valid?"

Cicero allowed a small smile. "Oh, most assuredly not!" he agreed. "And that is why Cicero brought this." He reached into the front of his jester's tunic.

"That's far enough!" Minnow materialized seemingly out of nowhere. "Remove your hand slowly." She held a small crossbow aimed directly at Cicero's heart.

"Say, what is this?" Argis demanded angrily, attempting to rise. Strong hands from behind pushed him back down into his seat. Minnow redirected her crossbow towards the big Nord.

"Argis, don't resist!" Cicero exclaimed, truly frightened. "Cicero should have expected this. Please, don't hurt him!" he pleaded to the Grey Fox, his eyes wide with fear.

Grey eyes behind the mask narrowed calculatingly. "So, it's that way, is it?" he murmured. He made a small gesture with his hand and the ones pinning Argis to his seat withdrew.

"My apologies, Grey Fox," Cicero said, regaining his composure. "Cicero has papers of authenticity in his left front pocket. He promises you he wasn't reaching for a weapon."

"Can you promise me there was no weapon there?" the Breton man drawled.

"Er…well…no," Cicero giggled weakly. "But Cicero can promise he was only trying to retrieve the papers."

"Minnow," the Grey Fox said shortly.

Without a word, Minnow lifted the crossbow, pointing it at the ceiling, and came around in front of Cicero. She rummaged into the front of Cicero's jester tunic while Argis fumed helplessly.

"Relax, handsome," Minnow drawled. "He's not my type. You, on the other hand, might be."

Now it was Cicero who scowled, and Argis found he couldn't help but chuckle.

Minnow retrieved the documents and handed them back to her boss, who read through them carefully. After several minutes of silence, while the two men from Skyrim waited on tenterhooks, the Breton thief finally spoke.

"Very interesting," he said. "It would appear that we do, in fact, owe you a favor. A very big one, to be honest. You actually saved his life?" he threw the question at Cicero.

Cicero shrugged. "Cicero didn't think about it at the time," he admitted. "He just reacted."

"If you get the opportunity to 'react' in that manner for me, I'd appreciate it," the Grey Fox drawled. "Well, this casts a different light on the subject. You can all stand down, the rest of you. Minnow, see that they get back to work."

"You're trusting them?" she asked, still suspicious.

"I am," said her boss. "And you should, too. It would seem there wouldn't be a Guild in Cyrodiil, or much of one left after the War, if it hadn't been for Cicero here. We'll help him in any way we can."

"Fine," Minnow sniffed. "What do we have to do?"

"That's a very good question," the Grey Fox smiled. He turned to Cicero. "What do you want from us?"

Cicero grinned. To those who knew him it was a smile full of mischief. To those who didn't, it was sinister. In spite of herself, Minnow – hardened thief that she was – shuddered.

"We need to break into the Arcane University," the little jester said.

* * *

 _[Author's Note: I departed from canon a bit with both "Ill Met by Moonlight" and "Blood's Honor." I included Sinding in "Blood's Honor" because it was something Marcus would do; I also added a confrontation between Marcus and Hircine in "Ill Met by Moonlight," again, because it was something he would do. Marcus is coming to terms with his lycanthropy, though he is still by no means comfortable with it._

 _The meeting between Cicero and the Grey Fox takes place shortly after they bid Tamsyn an early good-night, and before she goes off to meet with the Chancellor at the University. Short of time-stamping my passages, which to me breaks up the flow of the narrative, explaining it here makes more sense. Next up, we learn what has been happening with Tamsyn in the clutches of the Thalmor. And Marcus and Vilkas pay a little visit to Driftshade Refuge, to let the Silver Hand know their feelings about the death of Kodlak Whitemane._

 _Oh, and I haven't forgotten about Serana, all you vampire-lovers out there. She will be returning shortly. Thanks for staying with me!]_

 _[Edit: I made some necessary changes to the end of this chapter; I felt Cicero would not use first person personal pronouns if he felt he was being watched. Other language was edited and tightened up for better reading. -AN]_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

There was a stunned silence after Cicero's pronouncement. Finally, the Grey Fox spoke.

"The Arcane University," he said slowly. "Why not just ask me to infiltrate the Thalmor Embassy while you're at it?"

"Oh, because Cicero has already done that!" Cicero smiled happily.

More silence. Minnow glanced at her boss, but he didn't take his eyes from the two men from Skyrim in front of him.

"I'm going to assume that's not a joke," the Grey Fox finally remarked guardedly. "Fine. Then let me ask you this… _if_ what you say is true, then why do you need _my_ help breaking into the Arcane University?"

 _That's a fair question,_ Argis thought. "It's because this time there's only two of us, and we _both_ need to get in."

The Grey Fox leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "Why?" he asked.

"That's our business," Argis rumbled, already afraid he'd said too much.

"You ask me to risk my people and my resources, but you won't tell me why," the Guildmaster tsked. "Gentlemen, you're not instilling any willingness on my part to help you, token or no token."

Argis opened his mouth to protest but Cicero placed one finger over his lover's lips. His blue eyes bored into the grey ones behind the mask.

"Because someone Cicero cares about quite a bit will be walking into that viper's nest in a very short time," he intoned with a dangerous glitter in his eyes. "And he intends to be close by to watch her back."

"'Her' back?" the Grey Fox mused, glancing from the Imperial to the Nord. "I thought the two of you were—"

"We are," Argis bit out in a tone that invited no further questions.

Cicero sighed in frustration. "The woman Cicero refers to is one of his dearest, closest friends, and the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold in Skyrim. She's been invited to an 'after-hours' viewing of the facilities by someone Cicero doesn't trust at all. _Now_ will you help us?"

The Grey Fox sat back in his upholstered leather chair. "Interesting…" he mused.

He seemed to be turning several things over in his mind at once, but the mask partly obscured his features, making reading his face difficult, if not impossible.

"Having a claim on the Arch-Mage of Winterhold _would_ be a nice ace up my sleeve," he contemplated out loud. He didn't even seem to care that the two men were sitting there listening to him evaluate the pros and cons of aiding them. "And if my sources are correct, she's married to the Skyrim hero known as the Dragonborn. As I understand it, he's responsible for saving the world – if you believe the tales. Still, the Nords hold him in high esteem. Having him owe me a favor would also be very handy. And if you, Cicero, are truly connected to a Brotherhood thought to be destroyed, it would mean your organization isn't as dead as the public would like to think. I would certainly like to stay on the good side of _that_." There was a long, tense moment while he appeared to consider other options unknown to them.

"Gentlemen," he said finally, getting to his feet. "As it happens, I _may_ be able to help you. Helping you helps me, you see. But I make no promises. What you're asking for is very dangerous, and likely to end badly for one or all of us. Come with me."

Cicero and Argis rose and followed the Guildmaster through one of the filigreed gates with Minnow close behind.

"Not you, Minnow," the Grey Fox said. "I'll need you to enact Directive 24."

Minnow's eyes widened but she said nothing, saluted with a fist across her chest and a slight bow from the hips, and turned to head back to the main chamber.

Ever curious, Cicero asked, "I don't suppose you'll tell us what 'Directive 24' is?"

"Nope," the thief said, laconically. "Just come with me and all will be made clear in time."

He led them through another tangled maze of corridors into a large, vaulted chamber lined with shelf after shelf of books, artifacts, flasks and other assorted items. Mannequins stood along one wall sporting armor of all kinds and types, from light to heavy and some even wearing armor from city guards as far away as Elsweyr and High Rock. Weapons of all kinds hung in racks and on plaques. Dominating one corner was a large statue of a hooded, scantily-clad woman with ravens perched on her shoulders and arms.

"Who is that?" Argis wondered, as Cicero's eyes widened.

"That is my Lady, Nocturnal," the Grey Fox told them. "Patron to thieves such as myself."

Cicero's eyes narrowed. "Cicero thinks you've been at this a long time, judging from the collection you have here."

"I have my predecessor to thank for most of it," the Grey Fox acknowledged with a nod of his head. "The man whose life you saved; and all the men who came before him who wore the Grey Cowl."

"I'm still confused," Argis complained. "I thought you were going to help us?"

"Be patient, dear boy," Cicero murmured. "Give him time to explain."

"Thank you," the thief said graciously, giving a mock bow. "You see, I _am_ a thief. At least, down here among others of my ilk. Above ground, however, it's a different story. I'm actually a quiet man of business who deals in antiquities."

"Antiquities you steal from people?" Argis guessed with a frown.

"Quite so," the Grey Fox agreed pleasantly. "But while most thieves take things, sell them off through their fences and live off their ill-gotten gains, _I_ prefer to pass my largess along to those less fortunate."

"I've heard that tale a hundred times," the big Nord snorted.

"I'm sure you have," the Breton thief grinned. "Where do you think those tales originated? I _do_ have a reputation to uphold, you understand."

"The legend of the Grey Fox has been around Cyrodiil for centuries," Cicero explained to his lover. "Most of the time, the authorities have tried to discount them, claiming it's all made up. But the legends have persisted and have lost nothing in the retelling."

The Grey Fox nodded. "Originally there was only one Grey Fox; a thief of some renown in his own right before he stole Nocturnal's Cowl from her while she was bathing. She cursed the Cowl, then, that while he wore it, no one would know who he was; neither by name or gender or race. The legends sprang up that he was immortal, though of course, that was foolishness. Eventually, the curse was lifted – we think about two hundred years ago or so, we're not quite sure – and the title continues to be passed down today, though when I'm here, I tend to stay out of the limelight, and my businessman alter-ego in the city also keeps a low profile."

"So where does this leave us?" Argis asked, shifting restlessly. He didn't like being so deep in this den of thieves.

"That depends on how willing the two of you are to cooperate with me," the Grey Fox smiled. "You see, for a long time now, I have had my eyes on the ultimate theft. The biggest heist in Cyrodiil, and the time just hasn't been right. Now, I think it may be."

"Is there someone you need….removed from the stage?" Cicero asked, eyes gleaming.

"Funny you should ask that," the Grey Fox grinned ferally. "You see, not everyone in Cyrodiil is pleased with the way Emperor Titus Mede the Second bent his knee to the Thalmor to end the Great War. Many feel we aren't any better off now than we were before the war took place. The Thalmor are the ones who are really running things, though the Emperor makes a show of being in charge."

"And you want me to make the Emperor go away?" Cicero smiled, pleased he had figured it out. This was something he knew how to do. If this was the price of the Grey Fox's help, and if it meant they could stay close to pretty Tamsyn while she infiltrated the Arcane University, he was more than happy to oblige.

Argis, on the other hand, was horrified. "Cicero, no!" he cried. "I don't care how many people don't like him, he's still our Emperor! You can't do that!"

The Grey Fox seemed equally as upset. "Absolutely not!" he said firmly. "The Emperor is _not_ my target."

"Oh?" Cicero was confused. "Who then?"

"The head of the snake," the Breton thief said gravely. "I want you to kill Amaund Motierre."

"Amaund Motierre," Argis frowned again, thoroughly lost. "I thought you wanted us to steal something, not kill someone. And in all honesty, I'm not even comfortable doing _that._ "

"You misunderstand me, Argis," the Grey Fox said patiently. "I'm the one doing the stealing. You will just be assisting me by making it easier for me to do so."

The big Nord blew out an exasperated breath. "I'm really confused now. I thought you were going to help us get into the Arcane University."

"And I will," the Grey Fox assured him. "But it won't be easy. The Thalmor have spies everywhere. Fortunately, so do I. I am not without my…resources."

He beckoned them over to a magnificently-carved desk at one side of the room. Behind it, fastened to the wall, was a map of the Imperial City. Several other maps were unrolled on the desk, and the Guildmaster shuffled through them until he found the one he wanted.

"Here," he said, pointing to it. "This is a map of the Arcane University." He laid a piece of thin vellum over it and brought a standing sconce closer for better illumination. With the enhanced lighting, Cicero and Argis could see the vellum was nearly translucent, and the heavier outlines of the University buildings and walls were visible enough through it to be seen.

"I'm trying to get someone to make me some clear paper," he apologized, "but so far the mages aren't cooperating. This will have to do. I hope you can see what this represents."

"These lines on the top layer," Cicero commented, tracing one. "What are they?"

"Ancient sewer lines," the Grey Fox said smugly. "The Imperial City is built on top of another, more ancient Ayleid city. These tunnels date back to the at least the first era before recorded history."

"Do the Thalmor know about these?" Cicero asked.

"Probably," the Guildmaster shrugged. "But it won't matter. I have Minnow setting other plans in motion. The Thalmor will be too distracted to pay much attention to what's going on right under their aquiline noses."

"Directive 24?" Cicero shrewdly guessed, and the Grey Fox rewarded him with a smile.

"What are these buildings here, all set together?" Argis asked, pointing.

"Those are the primary facilities of the University," the Grey Fox explained. "The Praxographical Center is here on this end. This is where spells are created. As you move across you have the Mystic Archives, which is their library." Here he gave a snort. "I've got more books here than they house in that building! Next to that is the Mages Quarters, where the students and masters live. Then the Watchtower, which technically isn't a part of the University, but there are a lot of Thalmor that reside here. The Practice Rooms are here, then the Chironasium – which is the Enchanter's building, and finally the Lustratorium, which is the alchemy lab."

Cicero considered. "The Chancellor told Lady Tamsyn that there were things in the enchanting and spell-making rooms that wouldn't be there during her arranged tour tomorrow," he told the Breton Guildmaster, scowling. "Cicero felt at the time that it sounded like a set-up."

"Chancellor?" The Grey Fox pounced on that. "Which Chancellor?"

Cicero and Argis exchanged looks. After a heartbeat or two, Cicero shrugged. They were well and truly committed now.

"Chancellor Polus," he admitted.

"You're certain of that?" the Guildmaster pressed. "Chancellor Lorena Polus comes from a very old, very respected family. She has the ear of the High Chancellor, who is one of the Emperor's staunchest supporters."

"You said yourself that the Thalmor have spies everywhere," Argis reminded him. "Is it impossible that the Chancellor might be one?"

"No," the Grey Fox agreed. "Unlikely, perhaps, but not impossible. The promise of power can be very seductive to someone who feels their usefulness isn't valued highly enough in other areas."

"Lady Tamsyn also said there used to be some kind of transportation portals in the Arch-Mage's tower," Argis added. "She said they were missing when she visited earlier today."

"Portals?" the Grey Fox blinked in surprise. "Magic portals? They haven't been there for decades! How could she have known they were there at all?"

Cicero coughed embarrassedly. "Er…well…the Arch-Mage has certain…abilities," he said lamely. Of the three men present, only he knew Tamsyn's true origins, and he had no intention of revealing them.

"She's a Seer," Argis said firmly. "She can sometimes see things before they happen. She knew all about Alduin coming back, and what my Thane had to do to defeat him."

"Your Thane," the Grey Fox pounced again, and Argis could have bitten his tongue. "Well, this makes things much more fascinating. No wonder you have such a vested interest in seeing to her safety. You have a personal connection too, it seems."

Cicero and Argis exchanged glances once more. "What of it?" Cicero asked, a bit defensively, but with an underlying edge of warning in his tone.

"Oh, come now, gentlemen," the Grey Fox smirked. "We'll get nowhere if you aren't prepared to trust me just a little. I have no intention of betraying your confidences. It's bad for business."

"He sounds just like Brynjolf," Argis said sourly. Cicero immediately tried to shush his lover, but the damage had already been done.

The Guildmaster pierced him with a look. "So, you know the Riften Guildmaster, too? My, my, things just keep getting more interesting!" He straightened and paced the floor several times while they watched him uncertainly. He paused in front of the statue of Nocturnal and seemed almost to be communing with his patron before turning and fixing them with a steady look.

"Well, it seems we have a mutual interest," he finally said. "Your friend, the Arch-Mage, may be walking into a Thalmor trap, and you want to make sure you're around to help her if needed. For my part, the Thalmor have been a boil on my backside long enough, and it's time to take them down a few notches. I've learned through reliable sources that Amaund Motierre is in very tight with the Dominion, and like all Dominion puppets doesn't know they're pulling his strings. He's always been a pompous ass, but lately he's been trying to curry favor with the Emperor with an eye toward being named successor. While the Emperor hasn't exactly made the best choices over the years, he's still preferable to that cock-sucking toady Motierre."

"That doesn't seem like reason enough to kill the man," Argis rumbled.

"And you'd be right, if he'd just left it at that," the Guildmaster shrugged. "But that's not what my informants have learned. It seems Motierre isn't planning to wait for Titus Mede to kick over on his own. He wants to help him on that slippery path. My sources report he tried contacting the Dark Brotherhood, but when his prayers went unanswered he reportedly began making inquiries on how to communicate with agents of the Morag Tong. Ever hear of them?"

"Sithis and damnation!" Cicero swore violently.

"Morag Tong?" Argis echoed, feeling more and more that he was in way over his head. "Who are they?"

"Sinful, prideful, deceitful pretenders!" Cicero raged leaping out of his chair to pace wildly back and forth. "Back-stabbing traitors! They turned their backs on Sithis!"

At Argis' befuddled look, the Grey Fox patiently explained. "The Morag Tong was a group of assassins out of Morrowind, dating back to the First Era. From what I've been able to learn about them, they were responsible for the murder of Emperor Reman the Third in that time, and later for the death of Potentate Versidue-Shaie, the man who ordered Reman's assassination. Some time after that, the Dark Brotherhood broke from the Morag Tong, and the two groups have been lethal enemies from that time on."

"For their perfidy and arrogance, the Morag Tong was almost completely wiped out in Morrowind," Cicero seethed, making a huge effort to calm down.

"Quite so," the Guildmaster confirmed. "But the Brotherhood had already left the organization by that time and had migrated west to Cyrodiil and all points beyond."

"Has this Amaund Motierre been successful in reaching the Tong?" Cicero asked, flexing his fingers in agitation. He was as tense as a coiled snake, ready to strike, and Argis sincerely hoped the little jester would not direct his anger toward the Grey Fox. It wouldn't end well for any of them.

"Not that I've been able to determine," the Breton thief said, shaking his head. "They're not an easy group to locate."

"Good!" the wiry Imperial cooed. "Cicero will be happy to make sure he never finds them!"

"Let me get this straight," Argis rumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. "If we take out this Amaund Motierre for you, you'll honor Cicero's favor token and get us into the Arcane University."

"That about sums it up," the Grey Fox agreed.

"Well," Argis blew out a breath of frustration. "We're kind of short on time. We need to leave for the University now if we're going to be of any help to her at all."

"I understand," said the Guildmaster. "Which is why I will go with you to the University, and we will deal with Motierre after we have ensured the Arch-Mage's safety. Is that acceptable to you, Cicero?"

Cicero stopped his pacing long enough to ponder the situation. Yes, they needed to get into the University and be there for sweet Tamsyn should she need them, but this issue with Motierre was at least as important. The man was going to kill the Emperor, which the Grey Fox didn't want to happen; worse, he planned to call in the hateful Morag Tong to do the job. That in itself was enough to deserve Cicero's blade across his throat. And while he would have preferred to take care of Motierre he knew that in this matter he must wait for the proper time and place. He still wasn't sure he completely trusted the Grey Fox, but it seemed the man had a plan in place, and the best thing to do right now would be to go along with it and hope the thief knew what he was doing. Who knew? If all went well with this, the Guildmaster might be more inclined to help the Arch-Mage find things the Thalmor wanted hidden.

Something Argis mentioned earlier occurred to him, and he realized that there was a chance the Grey Fox might be able to point new Brotherhood recruits his way. Perhaps Mother would find someone suitable to talk to if new blood was brought in! Still, it wouldn't do to look too eager.

"Why are you willing to go to the trouble?" he asked now, suspiciously.

"Let's just say I was inspired to be honest with you and leave it at that," the Guildmaster said briskly, flicking a glance at Nocturnal's statue that Cicero did not miss. "My point is this: Titus Mede is old; very old. He won't live forever. What will happen to the Empire when he dies with no heir?"

"The Elder Council chooses another Emperor," Cicero answered.

"That's right!" the Breton thief praised. "And who does the Council answer to?"

"The Thalmor?" Argis guessed.

"Now you're getting it," the Grey Fox grinned. "They've been pulling the strings around here for so long, everyone's forgotten when they first infiltrated. Of the thirty or so members, nearly half are either Dominion operatives themselves or their toadies."

"And if the Emperor dies without an heir, they pick someone sympathetic to the Dominion, which the current Emperor isn't," Argis mused, finally understanding.

"Exactly!" the other man approved. "Now you see what I'm getting at."

"This theft you mentioned," Cicero said slowly, the pieces finally clicking into place. "You want to steal the Ruby Throne, don't you?"

"Amaund Motierre isn't the only one with his eye on ruling Tamriel," the Grey Fox acknowledged. "I've always felt one should go big, or go home. Since assassinating an Emperor leaves the entire country in turmoil, besides being bad for business, it makes far better sense for me to steal it another way: by making myself indebted to the Emperor, by saving his life."

"What better way to prove your loyalty and value to an Emperor than by exposing a murderer in his court," Cicero grinned ferally.

The Grey Fox inclined his head in acknowledgement of the truth of Cicero's words. "And besides," he added cryptically, "I have other reasons for wanting to keep the Emperor alive for as long as possible." He gave a wicked chuckle. "Gentlemen, I'm so glad we're all on the same page about this."

* * *

Driftshade Refuge was the name of the place, Vilkas had told Marcus. It was snugged back up into the mountains to the west of Alftand, and somewhat south of an Imperial Legion encampment in Winterhold.

The two men held off 'going wolf' in order to use the transformation against the Silver Hand.

"They stole Wuuthrad, too, those bastards!" Vilkas growled, a dangerous gleam in his amber eyes. His eyes were another difference his had with his twin; Farkas' eyes were a steely blue.

 _Fraternal twins,_ Marcus observed absently. Wuuthrad, he knew, were the remnants and shards of the shattered axe once carried by Ysgramor himself. He had seen it intact while in Sovngarde. The weapon had been so much a part of the hero's life that an echo of it followed him to the Nord afterlife. Indeed, from all the tales Marcus had heard and read about the founder of the Companions, it would have been impossible to separate the two, or expect to see the great man without it.

"How many did you have collected?" Marcus asked now as they jogged along the north road to Dawnstar.

"Nearly all of it," Vilkas simmered. "I think we were only missing one or two pieces."

"We'll get them back," Marcus vowed. "And we'll make them pay for this treachery."

"Aye," Vilkas agreed. "For Kodlak!"

"For Kodlak," Marcus concurred, "and for all of us. For everyone who must look over their shoulder in case the Silver Hand is there. Kodlak told me they don't just target werewolves."

"That's true enough," Vilkas nodded. "They're nothing more than brigands, bandits and low-lifes."

"With a mission," Marcus reminded him. "To kill werewolves. That's what makes them so dangerous. The Jarls probably don't go after them because of that."

Vilkas said nothing, but his face was clouded with conflicting thoughts. He picked up his pace and broke into a full run. Marcus hurried to keep pace with him.

Both moons were out tonight, but only halfway illuminated. Masser was already low in the west, but his little sister Secunda was high overhead, her white light bathing the land around them in silvery tones. Marcus was gratified that his wolf senses gave him keen enough vision to see clearly, even in the darkness. They passed Fort Fellhammer, which he had cleared out almost a year ago, and saw both Imperial and Stormcloak troops patrolling the walls. It reminded him sharply that he still had other responsibilities to attend to. Avenging Kodlak had to come first, however. Waiting might make the Silver Hand relax their guard – they must surely expect some kind of retribution for the offense they had given – but more innocent lives might be lost if they didn't act quickly.

He also needed to report back to Isran and let him know what had happened at Dimhollow Crypt. He had thought long and hard about his involvement with the Dawnguard, and had come to the conclusion he couldn't be the person Isran wanted. Ask him to stick close to Whiterun Hold and protect its people from vampire attacks, and he could do that, but wander all over the Province, stamping out nests of the creatures? No. He had too many other irons in the fire. He needed to contact more dragons, and that meant talking to Esbern to see if he'd found any other names. It wouldn't help summon the nameless ones, but they usually went along with whatever their stronger, named brethren did.

There was the Thalmor threat to be concerned about. And all this talk of vampires with Elder Scrolls was just a distraction from that. He had an Elder Scroll himself, locked carefully away at home. He hadn't yet sold it off to Urag at the College of Winterhold because Tamsyn asked him not to, without explaining why he shouldn't. It made him more than a little uncomfortable having something that powerful just lying around at home, but he had the best locks in the world on the chest in his downstairs study. He doubted anyone could get through them. And even if they did, they'd have to get through the rune traps Tamsyn had laid on it.

He couldn't get rid of the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach at the thought of a bunch of vampires actually having access to an Elder Scroll. All his had done, when he'd read it, was to send him back in time – and he actually hadn't left the present; only his mind had gone back as an observer. He couldn't affect anything that had happened then. If that was the extent of an Elder Scrolls' power, Marcus felt it couldn't be that bad that vampires were in possession of another one.

But he still felt uneasy. Marcus didn't like feeling uneasy.

Driftshade Refuge loomed into sight, and the two Companions slowed to a walk, crouching and keeping to the shadows. Once a much larger fortification, now it was a run-down dump of a place, with broken down walls and only one building remaining somewhat intact. Partially nestled back into the mountainside, it was overgrown with thorny snowberry bushes and heavily drifted with an accumulation of snow that seemed as though it had never melted in living memory. Marcus had been all over this area in the last couple of years, and even he didn't know it was here.

There were two guards patrolling the outer area; one was on top of the lone building, while the other prowled what had once been an inner courtyard area. This one was crouched near a small fire, warming her hands.

"For Kodlak," Vilkas growled softly, allowing himself to transform. Scenting the beastblood in the air, Marcus allowed himself to follow suit and let the change sweep over him. It was different this time. He wasn't fighting it, and somehow the Ring seemed to give him more control over Wolf than he had ever had in the past. Or perhaps, he was just getting used to it. There was no more time to ponder the implications, however, as Vilkas was already leaping forward to race into the courtyard and bound up the steps to the archer on the upper level. Marcus brought down the woman who was attempting to run Vilkas down and let Wolf savage her, even to the point of consuming her heart. There would be no holding back this time.

It was a night no one would remember. Neither Marcus nor Vilkas ever spoke of it afterward. Systematically they swept through the fortress, taking out each and every member of the Silver Hand. Locked doors were broken down by powerful slams and kicks, throats and hearts were ripped out and blood sprayed everywhere. Since he couldn't access his potions, Marcus could only allow Wolf to feed to recover his lost strength and health. Vilkas didn't seem nearly as reluctant, but then, he'd been a werewolf longer.

At length, they finally reached the final room, and in a heated, pitched battle, they took out the last three members of the Silver Hand, including the leader, a burly Nord whose name they never learned, but who wielded a silver greatsword like a master and nearly killed Vilkas before Marcus was able to leap on him from behind, savaging him ferociously. There was nothing left of the man's face when he was done, and even in wolf-form, Marcus felt slightly sick.

Vilkas reverted to his human form once more, and Marcus found that the Ring allowed him to return as well. Quickly he rummaged in his pack for potions and passed several over to a weakened, gasping Vilkas.

"It's done, then," Vilkas said wearily. "Gods forgive us."

There was nothing Marcus could add to that. He was covered in blood and viscera and felt more than slightly nauseated.

"Let's get out of here," he said.

"Let's take their valuable first," Vilkas suggested with a small smile. "And we need to find Wuuthrad."

The shards were locked away in a chest in one corner. Marcus opened it – not easily – and lifted out the leather-wrapped bundle. Together they opened it and confirmed that all the pieces, and a few new ones, were there. They made one more sweep through the place, with Marcus trying not to see the devastation they had caused. It was impossible, of course; blood was everywhere, along with mutilated bodies. He steeled himself against it. In point of fact, he had seen worse – he had _done_ worse – and the people here would have preyed on others, or presented a threat to the other plans he had going on in this area. It was no worse than clearing out Fort Fellhammer – except he hadn't gone wolf to do that one.

The trip back to Whiterun was solemn and quiet. Neither man spoke much, but there was an easier fellowship there now that hadn't been there before. Vilkas still brooded, but kept his thoughts to himself. He insisted Marcus hold onto the fragments of Wuuthrad, telling him to give them to Eorlund when they returned. As they walked through the gates of Whiterun early the next morning, Vilkas finally spoke.

"We'll be holding Kodlak's and Skjor's funerals in two days' time," he said. "I'll need to help in the preparations."

"Then you should take these to Eorlund," Marcus said, holding out the leather bundle.

"No," Vilkas insisted. "I…don't feel worthy. You keep them. Give them to the old smith at the funeral. I'll…see you there." He turned and left Marcus at the door of Breezehome and returned to Jorrvaskr.

With a worried frown, Marcus stared after the wolf-twin. He knew that Vilkas had been struggling with his lycanthropy, and had vowed not to use his powers again. That much he had learned from Farkas. While some – especially Aela – would have said this slip in his resolve was warranted, Marcus knew from long experience that broken vows ate away at a man's self-worth and integrity. Vilkas clearly had some soul-searching to do, and there was nothing he could do to help.

"Marcus of Whiterun?" a voice spoke behind him. He turned to see a courier waiting expectantly. "I've been looking for you." The courier threw a nervous look at Breezehome, no doubt expecting Lydia to descend upon him any moment.

"I'm Marcus," he smiled, hope flaring. "You've got something for me?"

"A letter," the courier nodded. "Your eyes only. From someone named Cicero."

Cicero? Not Tamsyn? The smile fled from his face as he accepted the carefully folded and sealed parchment.

"Looks like that's it," the courier said cheerfully, duty discharged. "Got to go!" He turned and raced back towards the main gate. With a sense of foreboding, Marcus went inside. Lydia was the only one there. Blaise and Sofie had not come downstairs yet, and Lucia probably wouldn't make an appearance until much later in the morning.

"A letter?" Lydia asked when he entered. "Is it from Lady Tamsyn, my Thane?"

"No," Marcus said quietly, holding up a finger to his lips and pointing upwards. Lydia understood at once the unspoken directive. _Keep your voice down. Let's not alert the kids yet._

"It's from Cicero," Marcus murmured as he broke the seal. The note was brief, but unmistakably in Cicero's handwriting.

" _Dearest Brother, do not be alarmed. Lady Tamsyn is meeting with a Synod affiliate in secret tonight whom Cicero does not trust. Dear Argis and I will be there, whether she wishes it or not. There is no need for you to come down here. We are handling it. –Cicero."_

"And if that doesn't worry you, I don't know what would," Lydia remarked sardonically.

"What the hell is going on down there?" Marcus hissed. "This couldn't have come at a worse time!"

"They said they were handling it," Lydia pointed out.

"Yeah, I know," Marcus sighed. "There's only one thing I have to worry about."

"What's that?"

Marcus glowered sourly as he replied, "How much of a bounty they can rack up before they return."

* * *

The letter had decided him. Marcus left immediately to return to Isran at Fort Dawnguard and put in his resignation. He told Lydia he'd be back by noon, intending only to be gone long enough to make his report and leave. Odahviing winged over the Fort as he came in to settle down by the lake, but Marcus could already hear the clashing of steel and the shouts of battle. Fort Dawnguard was under attack!

"Set me down quickly, Odahviing," he ordered, and the dragon dipped so sharply Marcus clutched the horns on the _dovah's_ head for balance. He leaped off almost as soon as the crimson drake touched down and sprinted for the front gate of the bastion.

As he drew closer, he could see Isran, Celann and Agmaer being pressed by three vampires. Durak had joined him on his rush to the fray, along with another woman Marcus didn't recognize. With reinforcements, the Dawnguard soon put an end to the menace, and Agmaer led the woman up to the fort, handing her a potion to drink on the way. She was limping on one foot. Durak went back to continue working on the fortified wall that was emerging around the castle itself. Celann joined him. Isran waited for Marcus to approach, the blueish-white domed shield surrounding him shimmering in the early morning light.

"Look at this," he growled bitterly, without preamble, gesturing at the bodies lying around. "I should've known it was only a matter of time before they found us. It's the price we pay for openly recruiting. We'll have to step up our defenses now. I don't suppose you have some good news for me."

"Well," Marcus demurred, "I have news, but I wouldn't exactly call it good."

Isran snorted. "Of course," he rumbled. "Why did I suppose differently?" He blew out a breath of exasperation and said, "Fine. Tell me what you know."

Marcus quickly skimmed through the trip in Dimhollow Crypt, including informing Isran of Tolan's death. The Redguard leader seemed saddened, but not surprised by this news.

"I knew he was no match for them," he murmured. "I tried to warn him, but he wouldn't listen to me." But a moment later he asked briskly, "So just what was it the vampires were looking for in there?"

"I don't know," Marcus said flatly. "I killed them before I could ask them. But I think it had something to do with the young woman I found sealed away in a tomb there."

"A woman?" Isran inquired sharply. "Trapped in there? That doesn't make any sense. Who is she?" His eyes narrowed. "More importantly, _where_ is she?"

"I took her home," Marcus said stiffly. "She's a vampire, but she must have been turned at a very young age. She doesn't look any older than seventeen, maybe eighteen years old. She wanted to go home, so I took her."

"And so you delivered her to them," Isran sneered.

"What was I supposed to do?" Marcus demanded. "She didn't make any attempt to harm me. In fact, she was very skilled at defending herself as we got out of there, and saved my backside a couple of times. I wasn't going to kill her in cold blood."

"I'm beginning to wonder if you're cut out for the Dawnguard," Isran muttered.

"Funny you should say that," Marcus snapped back. "I've been thinking the same thing!"

"Is there anything else you can add?" Isran simmered. From his expression, Marcus could see the man would have liked nothing better than to give him his walking papers right then and there, but knew he couldn't afford to be short-handed.

"Not much else," Marcus admitted. "I took her to a place called Volkihar Keep, off the northwest coast of Haafingar. Oh, and she had an Elder Scroll with her."

" _SHE WHAT?"_ Isran exploded. "And you didn't stop them? You didn't secure the Scroll?"

"Hey, I barely got out of there with my skin intact," Marcus shot back. "I was one person…there were at least a dozen vampires in that court, plus their little hellhounds. I'm lucky I made it out alive!"

Isran appeared to accept the truth of this, as he muttered, "So they have this woman _and_ an Elder Scroll. They have everything they wanted, and we're left with nothing." He pounded his fist into his hand. "By the Divines, this couldn't get much worse!" He fixed Marcus with an intense glare. "This is more than you or I can handle alone," he said finally.

"Me?" Marcus blurted. "Hey, I've done what you asked, but I've got other responsibilities to take care of."

"And the vampires having an Elder Scroll doesn't worry you?" Isran demanded. "It should! Who knows what they plan to do with it."

"Well, if it's anything like my past experience with one," Marcus drawled. "The most it will do for them is give them a window into the past."

" _Your_ experiences?" Isran jumped on that phrase. "You've actually _seen_ an Elder Scro—" He paused, peering sharply at the Imperial standing before him. "Of course," he finally breathed. "I should have seen it before. You're the Dragonborn!"

There was no point in denying it. He'd given himself away, he knew. He just hadn't been thinking.

"Alright, so I'm the Dragonborn," Marcus said. "If you've guessed that much, then you'll know I'm no expert on vampires. Dragons are more my thing."

"All the more reason to have you on our side," Isran pointed out with a grim smile. "The gods must be favoring us after all!"

"That's not what I meant," Marcus scowled, but bit his tongue to keep from saying any more. If Isran didn't know about his plans against the Thalmor, he wasn't going to enlighten the man. The fewer who knew about that, the better. The thought occurred to him as well that Akatosh _wanted_ him to look into this mess. He couldn't very well do that if he quit the Dawnguard. It had been many days since his last contact with the Dragon God of Time, but he wasn't going to let his patron down. In resignation, he glared at Isran.

"So what's your plan, then? We have to do something."

"Of course we do!" Isran snapped. "I'm old, not stupid. We just need…" he sighed, shoulders slumping, as if this was hard for him to admit. "We need help."

In that moment, Marcus had an epiphany into Isran's character. The man had been so strong for so long, and had done so much on his own without help, that it was hard for him to admit that some things were just beyond his ability to control. He might be Tamriel's best vampire hunter, but even he knew when it was time to call in additional help, if it could be found.

"If the vampires are bold enough to attack us here," Isran continued, his tone brusque as ever, "then this may be bigger than I thought." He paused and looked around, toward the fort, and down towards the barricade being constructed as a first line of defense. "I have good men and women here," he continued thoughtfully, "but there are…people I've met and worked with over the years. We need their skills, their talents, if we're going to survive this. If you can find them, we might have a chance."

"Alright," Marcus replied, accepting finally the fact that he was involved, whether he liked it or not. Eradicating the vampire menace had just become Priority Number One. "Where can I find the people we need?"

Isran gave him an approving smile. "Right to the point, aren't you?" he asked, without a hint of mockery. "I like that. Not like those fools in the Order. We should keep this small," he continued. "Too many people and we might draw unwanted attention to ourselves. I think we'll want Sorine Jurard," he finished.

"Who's that?" Marcus asked.

"Breton girl," Isran explained. "Whip-smart and good with tinkering. Has a fascination with the Dwemer; weapons in particular. Last I knew she was out in the Reach, near Druadach Redoubt, convinced she was about to find the biggest dwarven ruins yet."

"And she'll help us?" Marcus pressed.

Isran shifted uncomfortably. Clearly there was something he wasn't willing to admit to just yet. "Might need a little convincing," he hedged, "but she should. You'll also want to find Gunmar," he rushed on. "Big brute of a Nord who hates vampires almost as much as I do. He got it into his head years back that his experience with animals would help; trolls in particular, from what I hear."

"Trolls?" Marcus blurted in surprise. He didn't think trolls classified as animals, but then, this was Skyrim. He didn't expect to converse with a talking dog, either. Isran was still talking as if Marcus hadn't interrupted.

"Last I knew Gunmar was out scouring Skyrim for more beasts to tame. There's an animal den near Crystaldrift Cave, not far from here. You might start there. Bring the two of them back here, and we can get started on coming up with a plan."

"You seem to know an awful lot about their whereabouts, for someone who hasn't had contact with them in a long time," Marcus commented suspiciously.

Isran's face was a mask of non-emotion. "They were my friends once," he deadpanned. "Of course I keep track of them. Go on, get going. The sooner you bring them back, the sooner we can do something about this mess."

Finding Gunmar wasn't difficult. He was right where Isran said he'd be, near a cave, fixing a strap on his backpack. But the burly Nord wasn't about to leave what he'd been doing just because Isran sent for him. After cautioning Marcus not to come closer, due to a bear he'd tracked to the cave, Gunmar shook his head in disbelief upon hearing Marcus out.

"Isran? Needing someone else's help?" Gunmar's eyes widened in surprise and he shook his shaggy head. "Never thought I'd hear that. I'm afraid he's a few years too late, though," he continued stiffly. "I've moved on. I have more important business to attend to. Besides," he growled, giving the straps on his backpack a vicious jerk as he spoke, "he can handle anything alone! He assured me so himself. What could he possibly need my help with?"

"We're up against vampires," Marcus answered, hoping that would be enough to convince the man.

Gunmar stopped fiddling with his backpack and gave Marcus a long, searching look. "Vampires, eh?" he mused. "That….well, that might change things. Tell me more about what's going on," he prompted.

"That's the thing," Marcus shrugged. "We're not really sure at this point what's happening. All we know for certain is that the attacks are becoming more and more frequent all across Skyrim, and that the vampires now have an Elder Scroll."

"By the Eight," Gunmar breathed. "All right," he said finally, pulling on his beard. "I'll consider it. But I can't just leave this bear to prey on more innocent people. Once it's dealt with, then perhaps I'll see what Isran expects of me."

"I can help you with that," Marcus offered, and Gunmar smiled gratefully.

"Thanks," he said, clasping wrists with Marcus. He hauled himself to his feet and shouldered his pack. "It's this way. Follow me."

One bear actually turned out to be three, and these were not just simple brown or black bears that Marcus had seen time and again in the wild. These were cave bears, and they were bigger and nastier. Still, animal claws couldn't make much of an impression on dragon plate armor, and the dragon bone blade bit deeply again and again, dispatching the bears with little trouble.

Gunmar breathed hard when they were done and admired their handiwork.

"Bears aren't much of a challenge after dragons, are they?" he grinned, letting Marcus know the Nord knew who he was. "Don't know how well I'd have managed by myself, friend. You have my thanks."

As they emerged from the cave he shook hands with Marcus and stretched his back. "Well, you've helped me, so I suppose the least I can do is find out what Isran wants. He's still at that fort near Stendarr's Beacon, I assume?"

Blinking in surprise, Marcus blurted out, "How did you know?"

Gunmar chuckled. "If Isran is anything, he's stubborn. I'll go see what he wants and meet you there. Thanks again, friend!" The shaggy Nord trotted off in the direction of Fort Dawnguard, and Marcus found a clearing large enough to accommodate Odahviing, calling the dragon to him. Several moments later he was in the air, heading for the Reach.

He knew the area of Druadach Redoubt. He'd been there a few times, the first soon after he and Madanach had escaped from Cidhna Mine. The Reach-King still used it as his base of operations until such time as a sympathetic Empire would reward him for his assistance against the Thalmor and give him his country back. For the time being, Madanach divided his attention between the Redoubt, Bthardamz and Sky Haven Temple. When Marcus arrived, he was surprised to actually find the aging Reach-King in residence.

"Well, if it isn't our fearless leader," Madanach growled with a gleam in his eyes. He pounded Marcus on the back. "What brings you out this way? I thought you were playing nursemaid while that pretty wife of yours was in Cyrodiil."

The mention of Tamsyn brought a wave of conflicted feelings washing over him. He missed Tamsyn terribly, and now there was the added worry that something may have happened to her, or possibly would. Why else would Cicero have written to say that he and Argis were 'handling things'?

"Something's come up, Madanach," Marcus said. "Vampire attacks are becoming more and more of a problem. I need to get to the bottom of it so it doesn't interfere with our other operations."

"Hmph," Madanach grunted. "Can't say it's not a good idea," he allowed. "Some of my people have been encountering more and more of them in the wild, and some even in broad daylight. I thought they were weak against the sun?"

"That's what I thought, too," Marcus agreed, "but we're up against a new breed of vampires here. And to help fight them I need to find someone who's supposed to be out in this area. Have you seen a Breton woman hanging around any of the Dwemer ruins?"

Madanach shook his shaggy gray head. "I haven't, Dragonborn," he answered. "But I haven't been here all the time. Kaie!" he shouted out the door of his tent. A few moments later his second-in-command appeared, all furs, feathers and bones.

"What do you need, my King?" Kaie asked, bowing.

"Information," Madanach grunted. "Seen any Breton women hanging around here?"

Kaie considered. "There's Sorine," she replied, hesitantly. "She's the only one I know of. She's just poking around the old ruins. Hasn't offered us any harm, so we've left her alone."

"Sorine!" Marcus exclaimed. "She's the one I need! Where can I find her?"

"I just saw her across the river, about a half mile north of here," Kaie replied. "Did you want us to fetch her in?"

"No! That won't be necessary," Marcus said hastily. The last thing he needed was to have Sorine resist and a fire-fight ensue. "I'll go to her. She's not expecting me."

"Suit yourself," Madanach shrugged. "I'm heading back out to Bthardamz in the morning anyway, so if I don't see you, Dragonborn, give my best to that pretty wife of yours."

"I will," Marcus promised, trying hard not to think of what might be happening down in Cyrodiil at the moment.

He left the Redoubt and headed north according to Kaie's directions, and shortly thereafter found himself fording the river near a tumble of ancient stones scattered on the north bank. A Breton woman was fiddling with some kind of apparatus, and Marcus was paying too much attention to her to watch where he put his feet. He nearly tripped on something near the water's edge, and looked down to see a small satchel there, such as Tamsyn usually kept near her alchemy lab in her quarters at the College.

Kneeling down, he opened it to find nearly half a dozen bronze metal gyros of Dwemer make. Since the woman was the only one around, he figured the satchel must belong to her, and this must be Sorine.

"Excuse me?" he called, approaching her.

She looked up distractedly, and Marcus had to smile. He'd seen that same expression on his wife's face too many times. Sorine was clearly deeply involved in her work, and wasn't paying any attention to her surroundings. Whether she knew it or not, her protected status among the Reachfolk of Druadach Redoubt was responsible for her being able to conduct her research unmolested.

"What would mudcrabs want with my satchel, anyway?" she muttered irritably. "Just one gyro. One, and I can get back to work. Where are they?" She was scanning the ground all around the area, lifting up the tall grass and peering into the crevices between stones.

"Are you Sorine Jurard?" he asked. It was a silly question, really. He already knew it had to be her.

"You haven't seen a sack full of dwarven gyros lying around, have you?" she asked. Not waiting for an answer, she dived into a clump of blue mountain flower and pushed the stalks aside. "I'd swear I left it right there, by my workstation. Do you think mudcrabs might've taken it?"

Again, she didn't wait for an answer but peered into the branches of a nearby juniper tree and began shaking the limbs in an effort to dislodge anything remotely resembling a satchel. "I saw one the other day," she continued as if he wasn't even there. "I wouldn't be a bit surprised if it followed me here."

She stood and turned then, hands on her hips, and sighed in exasperation, "Well, don't just stand there! Look around, will you?"

"Uh…I'm not here because of mudcrabs," Marcus began uncertainly. _This_ was the person Isran wanted him to find? She was certainly…eccentric. But then, he supposed most inventors were.

"You're not?" she blinked. "Then why _are_ you here? Don't you know you're in the back-end of the Reach? It's dangerous out here! You shouldn't be traveling alone."

Marcus tried very hard at this point not to laugh at the irony in her statement. Keeping his face as straight as he could, he replied, "Isran sent me to look for you. He needs your help."

"Isran?" she sputtered. "He wants _me?_ " Slowly she shook her head. "No, you must be mistaken. He made it exceedingly clear the last time we spoke that he had no interest in my help. I find it hard to believe he's changed his mind. He said some very hurtful things to me before I left." The hurt was clearly still in her eyes, and Marcus felt sorry for her. Intuitively, he guessed her feelings for Isran once went beyond friendship, but had been rebuffed. "Anyway," she shrugged, making a valiant effort to sound casual and careless, "I'm quite happy in my current pursuits. So if you'll just excuse me…"

She turned her back to him and headed back to her workstation.

"We're fighting a growing vampire menace," Marcus called after her.

Sorine stopped, but because her back was to him, he couldn't see what effect the news had on her. The face she turned to him, however, was carefully arranged to show no emotion.

"Vampires, eh?" she sniffed. "Really? Oh, and now I suppose he remembers that I proposed no less than three different scenarios that involved vampires overrunning the population!" She paused for a moment, almost as if gloating over an absent Isran. "Well?" she demanded. "What are they up to?"

There was no easy way to break news of this magnitude, so he gave it to her straight. "They have an Elder Scroll, Sorine," he said.

Brown eyes widened in disbelief and fear. "I.." she breathed. "Well, that's actually something I _never_ would have anticipated." Her scatterbrained façade was breached, and suddenly Sorine Jurard was all business. "Interesting," she mused. "I'm not sure what they would actually do with one, but in this case, Isran is probably correct in thinking it isn't good. Alright," she sighed finally. "If nothing else, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to learn more about what's going on so I can better defend myself. But I'm not just going to abandon what I've been working on here! It's too useful! I need at least one intact dwarven gyro. So either I need to find the satchel those mudcrabs stole, or I need another gyro from someplace else." She turned hopeful eyes to Marcus. "You wouldn't happen to have one, would you?" she pleaded.

"I think this is yours," Marcus smiled, holding up the satchel.

"Oh, thank you!" Sorine cried delightedly, taking the satchel from him. "It's not much, but this will help a great deal with some things I've been researching. Now, where is it Isran expects me to go?"

"Fort Dawnguard," Marcus replied, amused at the sudden change in her mood.

"Ah," Sorine winked. "He's been working more on his secret hideout, has he? It'll be interesting to see how much progress he's made. The place was a dump last time I saw it; not much more than a tumbled-down ruin. I'll finish up here and head in that direction as soon as I can."

"Is there something I can help with?" Marcus asked, remembering his days as an I.T. technician. "I'm not bad at tinkering myself."

"Really?" Sorine considered. "Well, I don't know how much help you could be. After all, the work I'm doing requires a basic understanding of energy transference through a crystalized medium—"

"You're trying to focus light waves through a crystal to intensify and consolidate them, thereby making them more powerful," Marcus smiled. "Is that about it?"

Sorine didn't respond. Her mouth hung open for a long moment. Marcus gently reached over and pushed up her chin to close it. "I didn't think anyone would understand what I've been trying to do," she breathed. "Isran always called my projects irrelevant. He never understood…" She turned her back suddenly and her arm lifted to swipe across her face. Marcus gave her a few moments to compose herself.

"I may have some work for you when this is over," Marcus said diffidently. "I'm working with some people who could really use your talents. But for the moment, we need to concentrate on the vampire threat. Just keep it in mind, okay?"

"Of course," Sorine said unsteadily, her back still towards him. "Oh, if only you were twenty years older! Or I was twenty years younger!"

Marcus coughed embarrassedly. "Uh…as it happens, I'm married."

Sorine choked a laugh. "Just my luck!" she lamented. "The good ones are always taken! She's a lucky woman – say, you never told me your name."

"I'm Marcus, of Whiterun," he offered.

Sorine turned around then and extended her hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Marcus of Whiterun," she smiled, though he could see dirty streaks across her face where she'd wiped away tears. "I hope your wife appreciates the gem she has in you. I'd better finish packing up. Fort Dawnguard is a long haul from here. I'll meet you there."

He was dismissed, and he knew it, but he also knew he'd made a friend in Sorine. And if her research into Dwemer technology resulted in something that could be used to even the odds against the Thalmor, let alone the vampires, that could only be a good thing.

* * *

Marcus had Odahviing drop him off at Whiterun. Kodlak's funeral was the following day, and he intended to be present. He spent the afternoon at Warmaiden's, visiting with Adrianne, who was still recovering upstairs, and having Blaise help him repair and buff his armor. He made sure his weapons were sharp before securing them in their scabbards, and took the time to forge more ebony arrows from the few ingots he had on hand.

For his part, Blaise was working hard to keep up with the backlog of orders left in the wake of Adrianne's illness. While the Imperial smith, thankfully, would not turn into a vampire, she had suffered severe nerve damage to her hand and leg that even Priestess Danica was unable to mend. She would probably walk with a limp for the rest of her life, and if her hand didn't make a complete recovery, it would hinder her ability to do her job.

"I'm taking one day at a time, Marcus," she told him. "There's still a chance that when Tamsyn gets back she can pinpoint the trouble and fix it. I bear no ill-will to Priestess Danica, but she's getting on in years, and there have been many illnesses and injuries in the past that she hasn't been able to completely cure."

"What will you do if you can't go back to the forge?" Marcus asked. He knew Adrianne well enough by now to know the smith valued straight talk above all else.

Adrianne sighed. "I suppose I'll keep the shop going," she replied, shifting uncomfortably in her bed. Marcus brought over another pillow and fluffed the goosefeathers, putting it behind her back. "Thank you," she sighed. "It will just mean I'll have to depend on the Khajiit caravans more than I like to bring in new supplies. I wanted to begin teaching Blaise how to work with ebony and glass soon, but now I'm not sure I can do that effectively if I can't _show_ him how to set his hammer. The boy has been a godsend, Marcus. I can't renege on my promise to complete his apprenticeship. But if I don't recover, I may have to let him go."

"Does he know?" Marcus asked soberly.

Adrianne nodded. "I've spoken to him about it," she answered. "It hasn't come to that yet, and it might not, so let's not get ahead of ourselves. Perhaps when his mother gets back…" Her voice trailed off, and Marcus could see she was wearying, so he soon bid her farewell and promised to send Tamsyn over as soon as she came home.

"I won't even let her unpack first," he grinned.

"Oh please!" Adrianne grimaced. "Let the poor woman unpack first!" She chuckled.

The next day dawned grey and drizzly, and Marcus felt as though the skies themselves wept for Kodlak and Skjor. At the appointed time, he left Breezehome and made his way up the hill to Jorrvaskr. He didn't enter the Hall itself, knowing it would be empty, except perhaps for Tilma. He turned left and walked up the stone path to the Skyforge, where the entire company of Companions waited.

In front of the Skyforge, on wooden biers, lay Skjor and Kodlak, each in their wolfshead armor, with their Skyforge steel weapons laid across their chests. The Circle – or rather, what remained of it – were gathered closest to the forge, with Eorlund Grey-Mane standing nearby. Next to them were Priestess Danica, Proventus Avenicci and – to Marcus' surprise – Jarl Balgruuf himself. Behind them, in a semi-circle, were the remainder of the Companions. Ria was weeping openly, and even Torvar looked surprisingly sober.

Marcus took his place next to Balgruuf, who clapped a sympathetic hand to his shoulder before letting it fall. Marcus had the uncomfortable feeling that he was late, though he knew he had arrived exactly on time. "I thought the funeral wasn't until noon," he hissed to Balgruuf.

"You're fine, Marcus," the Jarl murmured back. "Proventus and I just wanted a moment to say good-bye to Kodlak. I just didn't think everyone else would want the same opportunity. Foolish of me." He subsided as Eorlund spoke.

"Who will start?" the gray-haired smith asked.

"I will," Aela volunteered, picking up a torch from a bucket of sand near her feet. "I'll do it."

Marcus had been to funerals before, of course. Most had been in his old world and were long, drawn-out affairs with much grieving and standing around. He'd been to a few since he had come to Skyrim, and found them to be short, intimate and powerful. He had felt closer to the gods of Skyrim than he had to the one God he had believed in during his whole long life before, and he found that the while sad, the funerals in Skyrim were more a celebration of the life lost than a depressing wish for things to remain as they were.

Aela was speaking, and he focused his attention on her words.

"Before the ancient flame…" she began.

"We grieve," everyone, including Marcus, answered.

Eorlund spoke up. "At this loss…"

"We weep," said everyone.

"For the fallen…" Vilkas announced.

"We shout!" said the mourners.

Farkas spoke the final invocation. "And for ourselves…"

All chorused, "We take our leave."

Aela stepped over to the biers, and ignited first Skjor's, then Kodlak's. Her warpaint was streaked and smeared from the tears she had shed, and she didn't seem to care. The two men who lay here had been father and brother to her – though some suggested that Skjor had been more than a brother. She stepped back and said a silent good-bye before motioning to Vilkas and Farkas to follow her. The rest of the Companions filed in behind them.

Jarl Balgruuf and Proventus stood in front and saluted the two fallen warriors, then made their way down the hill back to Dragonsreach.

Danica gave a quiet benediction that the two men would find peace in Aetherius and be accepted into Sovngarde at Shor's Hall. Marcus choked at that point. There would be no Sovngarde for either man. Skjor wouldn't have wanted it anyway, but it would now be denied to Kodlak because he was a werewolf. It wasn't fair. His throat tightened and his vision swam. He was grateful it was raining.

The clearing of a voice next to him brought him sharply back to the moment.

Eorlund stood there, his own throat working hard.

"I've known that man for the better part of half a century," the old smith said quietly. "A truer man I've never known. He always dealt fairly with anyone who wanted to become a Companion. Some couldn't take the demands of honor very well, some had hearts too filled with darkness to overcome, but Kodlak welcomed them all. He saw a value in them that they couldn't see themselves. While not everyone who came here had what it took to be a Companion, he seldom turned anyone away. If they failed, it was because of their own character, not because of anything the Harbinger did. He saw the man, or the woman, not what society chose to see. And some of them – some few of them – turned out to be better for it. That's the best any Harbinger can hope for."

Marcus could only nod. He didn't dare trust his own voice.

"Have you got the fragments of Wuuthrad, Dragonborn?" Eorlund asked now. "I'll need to prepare them for remounting."

Clumsily, blindly, Marcus thrust the leather-bound parcel towards the old smith, who steadied him with a hand. "Careful now," he admonished. "We don't want even more fragments, do we?" He chuckled at his own joke. Marcus didn't feel like laughing. "Of course," Eorlund continued, "I have a small favor to ask of you. There's another piece that Kodlak always kept close to himself. Would you go to his chambers and bring it back for me? I'm not sure I'm the best one to go through his things."

"Of course," Marcus replied quietly. "I'm not sure I'm the best one, either, but I'd be happy to do that for you."

"Thank you," Eorlund managed to beam. "I'll be here."

Slowly, Marcus made his way back down to the mead hall of the Companions. It was empty, and he assumed they had all retired to their quarters, or perhaps the Bannered Mare to drink a toast or two in Kodlak's honor. He might even, he decided, join them in a little while. But not right now.

He found Kodlak's private quarters just beyond the study he had only been in twice; once, to ream the old man a new one for what had happened to his son. He still squirmed with embarrassment when he thought of how the Harbinger had been innocent of any wrong-doing. The second time was not that long ago, when Kodlak had brought him here to ask him to retrieve the heads of the Glenmoril witches. He assumed the bag of heads was still down in the meat locker. They were useless now. Only Kodlak knew what to do with them.

The Harbinger's quarters were small and neat. There was a place for everything, and everything was in its place. Except for the journal that lay open on the nightstand Marcus had to open to find the piece of Wuuthrad.

He didn't intend to look; he really didn't. But his name leaped out from the writing on the page, and before he knew it, he was sitting down, reading the private journal of Kodlak Whitemane.

" _4E 201, 17th Last Seed_

 _In my dream I see the line of Harbingers start with Ysgramor. Each of them ascends to Sovngarde, until we come to Terrfyg, who first turned us to the ways of the beast. He tries to enter Sovngarde, but before he can even approach Tsun, he is set upon by a great wolf, who pulls him into the Hunting Grounds, where Hircine laughs with welcoming arms._

 _Terrfyg seems regretful, but also eager to join Hircine after a lifetime of service as a beast._

 _Then I see every next Harbinger turn away from Sovngarde and enter the Hunting Grounds of their own accord. Until it comes to me, and I see great Tsun on the misty horizon, beckoning me. It appears I have a choice. And then, at my side, a stranger I had not seen before. As I look into his eyes, we turn to see the same wolf who dragged away Terrfyg, and he and I draw weapons together._

 _I realize this is only a dream, but a strong enough dream to inspire a man like me to take to writing, so it must be of some import."_

Marcus had never placed much importance in dreams before, preferring to trust in what he could see and what he knew. For Kodlak to have dreamt of Sovngarde without actually knowing what would be there, and for him to believe he had a choice was compelling enough for Marcus to continue reading, to see where he figured in the Harbinger's life.

" _4E 201, 1st Evening Star_

 _I've spoken of my thoughts to the Circle, withholding the part about the stranger, lest Skjor worry I will no longer seek his counsel, and I was not surprised to see them torn by it. Skjor and Aela are strong in the ways of the beast, and even seemed to suggest that the Hunting Grounds would be their choice of afterlife, if it were truly a choice._

 _Vilkas seemed most troubled. The boy is fierce as a sabre cat in battle, but his heart's fire burns too brightly at times. He felt deceived, and I don't blame him. Farkas didn't know what to think, but I believe he will come around with me and his brother eventually. He usually does._

 _I don't know what to do about Skjor and Aela. I know they respect the Companions, and me, but they take to the blood more deeply than the rest of us._

 _4E 202, 10th Sun's Height_

 _For some time I have been watching the one they call Marcus of Whiterun, the Dragonborn. His is the face of the stranger I saw in my dream; there can be no doubt in my mind. He has not joined our company, however, but his son – a boy he adopted from Dawnstar – spends a great deal of his time here, sparring with the Battle-Born boy, Lars, and with Farkas, who seems to have taken the two boys under his wing. I have instructed Vilkas to begin teaching the boys the histories of Whiterun, the Jarls, and the Companions themselves. Glory tales are all very well and good, but knowledge of other things besides fighting will serve them better, and Vilkas is a good teacher._

 _Of the Dragonborn himself, I cannot speak with any authority. I do not know the man well, and this is something I regret. He came to bid farewell to his son, as he was leaving again in pursuit of his destiny, and I was struck by his rather soft attitude towards his children. It seemed he wished to coddle them, which to my mind would make them ill-prepared to face life. I'm afraid I spoke some truths he may not have been prepared to take, but he was not angry, and thanked me for my viewpoint, as – by his own admission – it was not one he had considered._

 _I said nothing to him of the dream I had last year. Perhaps I was mistaken, and he is not the one to stand by my side to help me reach Sovngarde. In this matter, the least said, the better."_

Again, Marcus was overcome with a wave of shame. Kodlak had been a stronger presence in his son's life than even he had been. He found it hard to believe that the Harbinger would take in two youngsters not old enough to become real Companions yet. Now he knew why; Kodlak believed that Marcus would play an important part in his cure, and he paid that debt forward by taking an interest in the welfare of his son, Alesan, and the boy's best friend Lars.

He continued reading, though now he felt thoroughly ashamed he hadn't gotten to know Kodlak as well as he could have, lycanthropy notwithstanding.

 _4E 202, 17th Last Seed_

 _It has been a year since my dream, and I am no closer to discovering its meaning than I was then. The only good news I have to report is the death of the World-Eater, Alduin. The Dragonborn is triumphant, and all of Skyrim is celebrating his glorious feat. Already the tales are spreading, and we hardly know which to pay credence to, but we have been promised a recital from one of the pre-eminent Bards of the College in Solitude very soon._

 _Jarl Balgruuf has gone to Riften to stand witness over the private wedding of the Dragonborn to the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, and upon their return there is to be a week-long feast. It is clear to me that there will be no jobs completed by these drunken lay-abouts until they recover from the festivities – and that may not be for a month._

 _4E 203, 8th Frostfall_

 _The boy, Alesan, second son to the Dragonborn, has been spending much more time at Jorrvaskr lately. While I am concerned about the time he spends away from his family, Vilkas assures me both he and Lars Battle-Born are doing well in their studies, and the Dragonborn himself has not objected to the boy being here. Aela and Skjor, in particular, have warmed to the boys, and spend much more of their time with them than I would have thought two grown warriors would do. Perhaps they see something in the lads I have not. I will keep my eyes on them and pay closer attention._

 _I have found more information regarding a possible cure for the beastblood that plagues us, but have not said anything to the Circle about it. Skjor and Aela would not understand, and I would not wish to give Vilkas or Farkas false hope if this does not lead to positive results. It is a shame there are so few documents written about this. Still, I must persevere. My very soul depends on it._

 _4E 204, 7th Rain's Hand_

 _Yesterday, Vilkas was telling me how difficult it had been for him to give up his transformations. Until we can pursue a true cure, the twins and I have chosen not to give in to the beastblood. For me, it's provided a clearer head, but Vilkas seems to be suffering a bit for it. Farkas seems completely untroubled. That boy continues to amaze with his fortitude._

 _While Vilkas was confiding, the Dragonborn stormed into my study and demanded to know what I had done to his son. To say I was confused would be putting it mildly. When Aela admitted giving the beastblood to the lad, I was mortified. Truly I had no idea she and Skjor would go so far, and I was very harsh with her; not nearly as wroth as the Dragonborn, understandably enough. I informed Aela that juveniles do not accept the beastblood well, and that they are fixed in wolf form, unable to change back._

 _This did not sit well with the Dragonborn, as one could well imagine. Aela informed me that Skjor had gone after the boy, and we can only hope he finds him quickly. Every moment he remains at large, he is at risk. I am very much afraid this has destroyed the good will of the Dragonborn, and this is something I deeply regret. It seems to me now that my dream was just that: nothing more than a dream. There will be none to help me find the cure. Except for Vilkas, I am alone in this."_

Once more, Marcus felt conflicting emotions; on the one hand, he was ashamed at the way he had behaved. There were at least a score of other ways he could have reacted rather than fly off the handle the way he had. By the same token, he still resented the Harbinger for not confiding the reasons youngsters were never given the beastblood. He continued reading, however, hoping that somewhere in the neat, precise handwriting, that Kodlak might have mentioned exactly how a cure was to be affected.

" _4E 204, 8th Rain's Hand_

 _Skjor is dead; he died attempting to rescue young Alesan Dragonborn. My heart is heavy with grief, but I must put that aside for now. There will be time enough to mourn him later._

 _All is not lost, it would appear. Young Alesan was rescued by his father and Aela, and the Dragonborn came to me to apologize for his harsh words. I could scarcely believe it. The man had every right to wash his hands of us, but instead, spoke with compassion and understanding. He has even offered to assist me in any way in order to find a cure for those who wish one. There is a man of honor! But I feel we have done him yet one more disservice: in order to save his son in time, he has taken the beastblood, and now suffers from the same curse as do I and the twins. Worse, Hircine seems to take especial delight in tormenting his new 'toy', the Dragonborn. This cannot be allowed to continue!_

 _In the meanwhile, I look for ways of cleansing our blood. The writings and legends on the subject are sparse and contradictory. I don't wish to engage any wizardry on this matter, but I fear they may be the only ones who best know how to navigate these worlds of knowledge. The Dragonborn has offered the services of his wife, the Arch-Mage, who is a Healer of considerable renown, but she is away from Whiterun at this time, and so we must forge ahead on our own._

 _It's apparent to me now that Terrfyg's choice to turn us was indeed a mistake. Magics and their ilk are not in keeping with the spirit of the Companions. We face our problems directly, without the needs of such trickery. I can only hope to guide us back to the true path of Ysgramor before the rot takes me._

 _4E 204, 12th Rain's Hand_

 _I'm amazed that Aela thinks she can keep a secret among this drunken rabble. Especially with the loss of Skjor (my heart aches), emotions are fraying, and the walls of discretion are the first to fall._

 _Apparently, she is waging her own separate war against the Silver Hand, in retaliation for Skjor's death. Her heart is noble, but the course of vengeance is running hot, and I fear the counterstroke that may come if she does not rein in her fury._

 _Marcus has been gone from Whiterun, attempting to discover more about the vampire attacks that are becoming more and more frequent. We have not had cause to speak much, and that is something I deeply regret. I have high hopes for his destiny, as I realized that his appearance in my dream may indeed mark him as the Harbinger to succeed me. It only remains to make him a full member of the Companions, and that shall be arranged as soon as he has returned._

 _I have received few dreams over the course of my life, but when they come, I have learned to trust them. I have also learned to trust the instincts of my heart, which tells me that Marcus can carry the Companions' legacy as truly as any residing in Jorrvaskr, especially with the loss of Skjor. Aela is too solitary, Vilkas too fiery, and Farkas too kind-hearted. Only Marcus stands as a true warrior who can keep a still mind amidst these burning hearts._

 _I will not speak to him of any of this, though. It is too much to burden another with. My hope is that he and I can keep counsel over the coming years, that I can impart the wisdom of the Harbingers. All things in time. Firstly, I will seek his assistance in the matter of the witches of Glenmoril. It would appear that our path to the cure is not without some poetic justice for the tricksters who first cursed us."_

For a long moment, Marcus sat there stunned. Kodlak wanted _him_ to be the Harbinger after him? He thought for certain it would be Vilkas, in spite of the wolf-twin's unpredictable temper. But perhaps Kodlak had seen the wisdom in not making Vilkas his successor. If Skjor had survived, he might have been the one, and a possible cure for the beastblood would never have come about.

He shook his head, though there was none there to see it. He couldn't be Harbinger. He was the Dragonborn!

 _Being one doesn't rule out being the other,_ a part of his mind told him. He could almost imagine Akatosh saying it, and wished once more he could hear that wise, calming voice in his mind. But it would never happen now. The Harbinger was dead, and any hope Marcus had of being cured of lycanthropy had died with him.

Heavily, he pocketed the journal, unsure if he had the right, but unwilling to leave it behind for other prying eyes to read. He retrieved the last piece of Wuuthrad – a large piece carved in the likeness of the head of a screaming elf, its mouth opened wide in terror – and returned to Eorlund at the Skyforge. Handing it over, he noticed the two biers were gone. He raised an eyebrow at the old smith.

"Into the Skyforge, boy," the smith shrugged. "It's our way. It's how all the Companions are sent off. Do you have the piece?" he asked, giving Marcus a keen look.

Wordlessly, Marcus handed it over.

"My thanks," Eorlund said gratefully. "I'll get started on this right away. The rest of the Circle have gathered in the Underforge. You should probably go to them."

Alesan was there, too, Marcus realized. By now his son had certainly learned that the Harbinger was dead, and he was doomed to remain a werewolf indefinitely. It didn't bear thinking about.

"Kynareth, help me be strong!" he breathed as he opened the hidden door.

Farkas, Aela and Vilkas were there, comforting Alesan who was whimpering and whining.

" _Lost! Lost!"_ the juvenile yipped. He saw his father and crawled to him on his belly, snuffling and yowling. _"Alpha…help me…"_

"I can't, son," Marcus whispered brokenly, his eyes stinging. "I don't know how."

"Marcus, I'm so sorry," Aela sniffled, wiping her eyes. Seeing the whelp with his father brought home to her the enormity of her wrong-doing. Had she realized this would be the result, she never would have gone along with Skjor when he suggested it.

"It's done, Aela," Marcus said. "There's nothing we can do about it now. There is no cure."

Alesan howled, and Marcus wanted to howl with him. Instead he held his son close, trying to calm the youngster down.

"What will you do with him?" Aela asked. "We can't keep him here indefinitely."

"No," Marcus agreed. "But I know a place I could take him to, where he'd be safe. There's another werewolf there, named Sinding. He's a good man, and didn't want to be a werewolf any more than I did. He…can't exactly control his changes. Hircine played him pretty rough. He's staying at a place called Bloated Man's Grotto, so he can keep away from people. I could take Alesan there. At least he'd be safe until he matures. Maybe by then he'll be able to revert back."

Alesan began whining and whuffing again. _"Don't send away…"_ he pleaded.

"You might not have to do something that drastic," Vilkas said firmly. "We were talking about this before you came in, Marcus. The old man had one wish before he died, and he didn't get it. It's as simple as that."

"Being moon-born is not so much of a curse as you might think, Vilkas," Aela protested.

"That's fine for you, Aela," he shot back. "But _he_ wanted to be clean. He wanted to meet Ysgramor and know the glories of Sovngarde. But all that was taken from him."

"And you avenged him," Aela insisted, scowling.

"Kodlak didn't care for vengeance," Farkas put in, ruffling the fur on Alesan's chest, calming the whelp down.

"No, Farkas," Vilkas agreed. "He didn't. And that's not what this is about. We should be honoring Kodlak, no matter our own thoughts on the blood. And what of Alesan, who should never have taken it at all? Or Marcus, who only took it to save his son? They don't want this any more than the old man did."

Aela bowed her head. "You're right, Vilkas," she capitulated. "It's what he wanted. It's what they all want, and they deserve to have it."

"What are you talking about?" Marcus demanded. "Have what?"

"A cure," Farkas supplied, surprised by Marcus' reaction. Wasn't that what they had all been talking about? Then he remembered Marcus hadn't been here when his brother first mentioned it.

"There is no cure," Marcus said bitterly. "Kodlak died before he could tell me what to do with the witches' heads I went to get for him."

"There may yet still be a way," Vilkas said mysteriously. "Kodlak used to speak of a way to cleanse his soul, even in death. You know the legends of the Tomb of Ysgramor?"

Marcus shook his head. He wasn't from around here, after all.

"There the souls of the Harbingers will heed the call of northern steel," Aela parroted. Clearly she had learned _that_ lesson. "But we can't even enter the tomb without Wuuthrad, and it's in pieces, like it has been for a thousand years."

The door of the Underforge opened, and Eorlund Gray-Mane came in, just catching Aela's last words.

"And dragons were just stories," he smirked. "And the elves once ruled Skyrim. Just because something is, doesn't mean it must be. The blade is a weapon. A tool. Tools are meant to be broken. And repaired."

Vilkas appeared stunned. "You can repair Wuuthrad?" he asked, dumbfounded.

"I can," Eorlund nodded. "But it will take some time. Meet me back here in three days' time. That should be long enough."

With more hope than he'd felt in a long time, Marcus returned home after excitedly making plans with the rest of the Circle. Once they had Wuuthrad, they would all – Alesan included – leave the Underforge at night and travel to Ysgramor's Tomb. Marcus didn't even know where it was located, until Vilkas mentioned it was off the coast of Winterhold in the Sea of Ghosts, and Marcus remembered Tamsyn pointing it out to him on their way to see Septimus Signus a few years ago. He wondered what had happened to the crazy old man.

Three days would give him time to make a quick trip back to Fort Dawnguard to see if Gunmar and Sorine had made it there in one piece.

It was difficult to keep this new hope from his other children, but he was so afraid of jinxing any possible good fortune, he only told Lydia after they'd gone to bed.

"That's the best news we've had in a long time, Thane," Lydia smiled. "I think I'll make his favorite supper when he gets back."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Marcus cautioned. "I'm not even sure this is going to work. I'm only telling you now because I need to be gone for a few more days."

"Say no more, my Thane," Lydia nodded. "I understand completely. If Lady Tamsyn gets back before you do, I'll tell her you went on a hunting trip with Alesan."

That was tempting, but Marcus shook his head. "She'd know you were lying, Lydia. Best not to risk that. I'd rather endure her disappointment than her wrath."

Lydia's one good eye glinted in amusement. "It's your neck, Thane!" she chortled.

* * *

Marcus had Odahviing set him down next to the lake near Fort Dawnguard.

"Perhaps my _thuri_ would consider speaking to the _joore_ at the _govoldeim…_ the fortress…to allow me to land on the top of the ramparts," the great red dragon suggested, with a more than a hint of sarcasm. "Tell them I promise not to eat them if they let me use it in that manner."

"I'll take it under consideration," Marcus replied drily. In point of fact, it _would_ make it easier for him to get around. After all, Odahviing was welcomed in Solitude, Windhelm and Markarth, as well as several Dwemer ruins now playing host to a mixed bag of basic training camps. Being able to land directly on Fort Dawnguard and just coming down the tower _would_ make things so much easier than schlepping up and down the hill each time. The only reason he hadn't already done it was because Isran hadn't known who he was, and he didn't want special treatment.

 _You're the Dragonborn,_ he reminded himself. _You're going to have to expect that people will treat you differently._

But at least he could put it off for as long as possible.

The outer wall had been fortified, and a gate now stood in place. Both in front and behind the wall, logs criss-crossed to form impeding barricades against a front assault. Isran was taking no chances. Marcus let himself through the gate after waving to the woman he'd seen a few days ago. Ingjard, he remembered, her name was. He closed the gate after himself and headed up the hill.

He saw Gunmar and Sorine enter the fortress just ahead of them, and realized they hadn't broken any land-speed records to get here, either. He strolled in behind them.

The great doors clanged shut, and to each side and ahead of them, iron bars rose to block off any escape in those directions.

"All right, Isran," Gunmar growled. "You've got us all here. Now what do you want?"

"Hold it right there!" the Redguard leader intoned from somewhere above them. A bright light suddenly shone down from a magnifying apparatus in the central shaft of the tower, and while it was uncomfortably warm and bright, it was more of a nuisance than anything else.

"What are you doing?" Sorine demanded, in a tone that implied she was thoroughly done with Isran's idiosyncrasies. She shielded her eyes from the light to peer up at the balcony, but could see nothing.

"Just making sure you're not vampires," Isran rumbled. "Can't be too careful."

Sorine rolled her eyes.

"So," Isran continued, "welcome to Fort Dawnguard. "I'm sure you've heard a bit of what we're up against. Powerful vampires, unlike anything we've seen before. And they have an Elder Scroll. If anyone is going to stand in their way, it's going to be us."

"This is all very well and good," Sorine snorted, "but do we actually _know_ anything about what they're doing? What do we do now?"

"We'll get to that," Isran replied smoothly. "For now, get acquainted with the space. Sorine, you'll find room to start your tinkering on that crossbow design you've been working on."

"I haven't done anything with that for years," Sorine muttered in an aside to Marcus.

"Gunmar," Isran continued, as if she hadn't spoken, "there's an area large enough for you to pen up some trolls. Get them armored up and ready for use."

"Huh, just like that," Gunmar huffed. "He makes it sound so easy."

"In the meantime," Isran went on, glaring at Marcus, "we're going to get to the bottom of why a vampire showed up here looking for you. Let's go have a little chat with it, shall we?" He left the balcony, clearly expecting Marcus to come up to him. The iron bars dropped down and disappeared back into the floors.

"A vampire?" Sorine asked in wonder. "Looking for you? Be careful, my friend!" she called after him.

"Always," Marcus muttered.

Isran was waiting for him at the top of the steps. Silently he turned and led the way around the balcony to a small chamber set to one side.

"This vampire showed up while you were away," he glared. "I'm guessing it's the one you found in Dimhollow Crypt. Says it's got something really important to say to you."

He stepped aside and made sure to keep facing the vampire. Marcus noticed at once it was female, and that Isran continued to objectify her by referring to her as "it".

"Alright, I've brought him," he said to the figure. "Now say what you wanted to say."

Two white hands lifted the hood away from the face, and two orangey pin-points of lights shone where the eyes should be; Marcus knew he'd seen her before.

"Hello there," Serana smiled, showing off two pointed fangs. "I guess you didn't expect to see me again."

* * *

 _[Author's Note: Marcus finally has hope for the first time in a long time that he and Alesan can be cured of their lycanthropy. Now if other things would just go as smoothly. Why has Serana returned? Those of you who know this questline, don't spoil it for those who don't. **grin**]_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Serana?" Marcus asked incredulously. "What are you doing here?"

Serana looked nervously at Isran as she answered. "I'd rather not be here, either, but I needed to talk to you. It's important," she urged, "so please, just listen before your friend here loses his patience."

Isran looked as though he was barely containing the urge to pull out a wooden stake and drive it through Serana's heart.

"Alright," Marcus soothed. "Both of you just calm down and tell me what this is all about."

"Well," Serana began, "it's…about me, and the Elder Scroll that was buried with me." She sighed. "I'm guessing you figured this part out already, but my father's not exactly a good person, even by vampire standards." She swallowed hard, and Marcus felt more than a little sympathy for her. It had to have been difficult for her to make that admission to two people who were, in point of fact, complete strangers to her.

"He wasn't always like that," she hurried to explain. "He was once a really nice person. But there was…a turn. He stumbled across this obscure prophecy and just sort of…lost himself in it."

"What do you mean, 'lost himself'?" Marcus asked.

The vampire girl looked lost and unhappy. "He just became absorbed…obsessed. It was kind of sick, actually. The prophecy said that vampires would no longer need to fear the sun. For someone who fancied himself as vampire royalty, that's pretty seductive. Anyway, my mother and I didn't feel like inviting a war with all of Tamriel, so we tried to stop him. That's why I was sealed away with the Scroll."

Marcus couldn't help but be amazed at Serana's fortitude. To have come all this way – all the way across Skyrim – looking for him in a fortress full of vampire-hunters. She was certainly brave…or foolish, but he preferred to think she was brave. And she had to have been completely terrified, especially being a vampire, to have even considered it.

"You took a big risk coming here," he smiled, and saw her visibly relax.

"I know," she nodded. "But something about you makes me feel I can trust you. I just hope I didn't make a mistake, and that I wasn't wrong."

"You're not wrong," he insisted. "But it won't be easy convincing the others to see beyond the end of their hatred, to convince them you're on our side."

"Well, let's move then," Serana smiled. "I'm nothing if not persuasive."

"Alright, that's enough," Isran interrupted irritably. "You've heard what it has to say. Now tell me, is there any reason why I shouldn't kill this blood-sucking fiend right now?"

"Well, for starters," Marcus frowned, "I think we're going to need her help."

"Why?" the Redguard demanded. "Because of some story about a prophecy? Do you really believe that crap?"

"Isran," Marcus sighed. "My whole life is built around prophecy. I would take them a lot more seriously if I were you. Besides, why would Serana come here and risk her life to warn us? She didn't have to do that."

"Who knows?" Isran scoffed. "Maybe it has a death wish. Maybe it's insane. I don't care which."

Marcus had had enough of Isran's incivility by this point. "Alright, first off," he snarled, "she's a girl! If you want to stay on my good side, stop calling her an 'it.' Secondly, you'd better start looking at the larger picture here. If Serana's father is taking an obscure prophecy seriously enough to launch a war against the rest of us, you'd better damn well sit up and pay attention if you want to stay alive. I've found that works pretty well for me!"

Isran simmered, but apparently decided staying on the good side of the Dragonborn was a better option than not, because he finally growled, "Fine, it – I mean, _she_ can stay for now. But if she so much as lays a finger on anyone here, I'm going to hold you personally responsible, got it?"

"I suppose that's the best I can expect for now," Marcus allowed, grudgingly.

Isran turned to Serana. "You hear me? Don't feel like a guest here, because you're not," he fumed. "You're a resource. You're an asset. In the meantime, don't make me regret my sudden outburst of tolerance and generosity, because if you do, your friend here is going to pay for it." He glared at Marcus as if to say, _"Dragonborn or not."_

"Thank you for your kindness," Serana replied, gently mocking him. "I'll remember that the next time I'm feeling…hungry."

Marcus cringed. "You could have gone all day without saying that," he muttered.

Serana gave him a cheeky grin, exposing the tips of her fangs. If it hadn't unnerved him so, he might have thought it was rather a cute smile, with the dimples deepening in her cheeks.

"So," Serana said briskly, "in case you didn't notice this giant thing hanging off my back, I brought the Elder Scroll with me."

"Yeah," Marcus smirked. "I recognize it. I've got one just like it at home." He enjoyed the astounded look on her face.

"You're…joking, right?" she asked suspiciously. Isran backed away a step or two and found himself up against a torture rack.

"I never joke about Elder Scrolls," Marcus replied, keeping a straight face.

"Can you read it?" the vampire girl asked, curious.

"No," Marcus said, shaking his head. Fun time was over. "At least, not without immersing myself in the _tiid-ahraan…_ excuse me, the Time-Wound at the top of the Throat of the World. And even then, it only showed me a window back in time. I couldn't do anything while I was there."

Serana was staring at him in awe. "Who _are_ you?" she whispered.

"That's a very interesting question, which I will answer at another time," Marcus said briskly. "For now, let's concentrate on the Scroll you brought with you. Since neither of us can read it, we'll need to find someone who can, but I have no idea who could."

Serana considered this. "Well," she mused. "I've read that Moth Priests spend years of training and meditation to read and interpret the Scrolls. The problem is, they're in Cyrodiil, in the Imperial City, and that's a long way from here."

"I know," Marcus nodded. "My wife is there now. She should be returning soon." _I hope,_ he thought with some desperation.

"Some Imperial scholar arrived in Skyrim a few days ago," Isran rumbled grudgingly. "I was staking out the road when I saw him pass by. Maybe that's your Moth Priest."

"Do you know where he's staying now?" Serana asked excitedly.

"No," Isran scowled, "and I'm not going to waste men looking. We're fighting a war against your kind and I intend to win it. You want to find him? Try talking to anyone who'd meet a traveler. Innkeepers and carriage drivers in the big cities, maybe. But you're on your own." He turned and left them to head downstairs.

"That's a good idea," Marcus said. "Riften's not far from here. I can start asking there."

"That sounds good to me," Serana agreed. "In fact, I've been meaning to see more of the world since I was…since I woke up," she finished hastily. "I think I'll come along with you."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Marcus asked, concerned. Not many people would feel comfortable in the presence of a vampire, especially not with the heightened fear circulating the Province right now.

"I don't see why not," Serana shrugged. "I'll keep my hood up and my mouth shut. You can do the talking for us."

Unable to help himself, Marcus grinned. "Alright, but you'd better prepare yourself to see some strange things if you're going to travel with me. Try as I might, I don't exactly live a normal life."

"In case you hadn't noticed," Serana chuckled, "neither do I."

They headed down the stairs and crossed the main hall to see Isran and Gunmar deep in conversation.

"So can I count on you to handle whatever smithing work we need done?" Isran asked the dark-haired Nord. "Repairs, new armor, weapons—"

"You know I'm more than capable, Isran," Gunmar cut him off exasperatedly. "Why are you bringing this up?"

"I can't afford to make any assumptions," the Redguard grated. "That's how people wind up dead."

Gunmar glared at him. "Right. Well, you can relax. I have it under control." He turned and left the hall in a huff, presumably to find the forge.

Isran stared after him. "I don't relax," he muttered to no one in particular. "Ever." The Dawnguard leader turned on his heel and strode out of the hall in a different direction.

"Well, that just about sums up Isran," Serana quipped.

"I wonder if he was born with that stick up his ass or if he acquired it over time," Marcus agreed.

They almost made it to the door when Marcus heard Sorine calling after him.

"Marcus, wait! Do you have a moment?"

"Sure Sorine," he smiled, turning. "What do you need?"

The Breton inventor stopped short several feet from them and eyed Serana warily. "I just…listen, can we talk…you know, _privately?"_

Serana stiffened, and Marcus caught an expletive before it left his lips. It wasn't the most diplomatic thing Sorine could have done.

"Whatever you have to say—" he began, but Serana cut him off.

"It's okay, Marcus," she said, keeping her tone neutral. "I'll wait for you outside. Just…don't be long, okay? The sun will be up soon, and it's not good for my…complexion, if you know what I mean." She cast another long appraising look at Sorine before turning and leaving.

Marcus rounded on the Breton woman. "Well that could have been handled a bit nicer, don't you think, Sorine?" he demanded.

"Are you taking _me_ to task?" she gaped. "That's a _vampire_ , in case you've forgotten!"

"And she was a girl once, in case _you've_ forgotten," Marcus countered. "And a pretty young one, too, unless I miss my guess. It's still no reason to be rude."

Sorine opened her mouth to comment further, but shut it just as quickly. "You're right," she agreed. "I guess Isran's roping all of us into his paranoia. Still, I'd be careful around her, just to be on the safe side."

"I'll take it under consideration," Marcus said, keeping his face neutral. "What did you need, Sorine?"

"Well," she began, shifting uncomfortably. She threw a look over her shoulder before continuing. "Gunmar and I have been talking and, well, we're slightly worried," she continued in hushed tones. "We both realized that if Isran's even allowed us in here, he must really be concerned. And if he's that concerned, the situation must be pretty bad. Make sense?" At Marcus' nod, she went on. "These vampires are a new threat, and a truly deadly one. Able to withstand the sun; attacking in broad daylight anywhere without warning, and they've got those huge, death hounds with them. They seem…I don't know…organized, if that makes sense."

"It does," Marcus agreed. "What's your point, Sorine?"

"Gunmar and I agree that we're going to need Florentius to help. We both have a lot of work to do here, though, so we were hoping that maybe you could track him down."

"Hold on," Marcus said, holding up a hand. "Back up a minute. Who's Florentius?"

"Florentius Baenius," Sorine elaborated. "He's a Redguard, like Isran, but nothing like him. He's a priest of Arkay. Well, he was…it's…complicated. He's a little eccentric, I'll grant you, but we can trust him, and we could definitely use his skills."

Clearly Sorine didn't have a corner on the eccentricities market. Isran must have hung around with some really odd ducks in his day.

"Well, I certainly don't have any objections to a priest joining the team," Marcus agreed. "Where will I find him?"

"That's the thing," Sorine frowned, troubled. "We don't know where he is. Haven't seen him in years. I think he had regular contact with the Vigilants, and I know Isran kept track of them. So…maybe you could ask Isran if he knows anything?" She gave an apologetic shrug. "Just keep in mind that he…well, he might not like the idea."

"Bad blood?" Marcus asked, curious.

Sorine sighed. "The two of them just never got along," she explained. "That's why Isran didn't have you go looking for him when he sent you after us."

"Alright, I'll go talk to Isran," Marcus promised. "There's something I need to ask him anyway."

He went off in search of the Dawnguard leader and found him in a far corner, feeding a pair of husky-type dogs. Marcus grinned. They were a fantastic pair, with their leather armor strapped around them. Most of the dogs he'd seen since he came to Skyrim were mongrel types, like Barbas appeared to be. But these two were magnificent and he said as much to Isran.

"Trained 'em myself, to kill vampires," he responded proudly. "This one is Bran, and this one is Sceolang." He pronounced it _Shul-lang_. "Is there something you need, Dragonborn?"

"Yeah, two things, actually," Marcus replied. "The first is that I'd like permission to land my dragon on the battlements above when I come here. It's a shorter trip than hiking up from the lake, and Odahviing thinks the valley is too narrow."

"That's why I chose this place," Isran rumbled. "It's much more defensible that way. How do I know your dragon won't attack my people here."

"Because I tell him not to," Marcus said evenly.

Isran stared into the Dragonborn's eyes for a long moment, then shrugged. "Fine. I guess it won't be a problem. Might even come in handy to have a fire-breathing dragon on the ramparts if we come under another vampire attack."

"He won't be staying here, but if an attack comes while we're here, he'd be happy to roast anyone I point to."

"Fair enough," Isran replied, turning his shudder into a shrug. "What was the other thing you wanted?"

"I'm thinking we might need some divine intervention on our side. It might be a good idea to have a priest here. They can invoke the blessings of the gods to cure vampirism if someone contracts it."

"Hmm," Isran mused. "Not a bad idea, actually. I assume you have someone in mind?"

"What about Florentius Baenius?"

Immediately, Isran's face took on the aspect of a thundercloud. "Who put you up to this?" he growled. "Was it Sorine or Gunmar?"

"Does it matter?" Marcus shrugged. He was getting used to Isran's stubborn, set-in ways by now.

"I thought they'd have learned their lesson by now," the Dawnguard leader continued to vent. "I don't trust that man, and I don't want him here!"

"Look, you yourself admitted we need more help," Marcus pointed out. "Sorine thought we need him here. I don't know what your beef is with him, but maybe you could set that aside while we work on a common enemy?"

"Beef?" Isran echoed, lifting an eyebrow. "If by that you mean, 'what is my problem with him', I'd rather not get into that now. We'll be here all morning, and don't you have a Moth Priest to find?" The Redguard blew out a breath of exasperation, realizing he was fighting a losing battle. "Fine," he said, without enthusiasm. "I suppose she's right. Woman knows me too damned well, curse it. I shouldn't let my personal feelings get in the way. Last I'd heard of him, he was aiding the Vigilants of Stendarr at Ruunvald, north of here in the Velothi Mountains. He may still be there. If he can maintain some appearance of normalcy, I'll allow him to stay."

"Thank you," Marcus said sincerely. "I'll see if I can find him as soon as possible. Sorine and Gunmar both seemed to think it was important to have him here."

Isran merely grumbled and went back to his dogs.

Marcus rejoined Serana outside.

"So, where's this Riften you mentioned?" she asked.

"Just west of here," Marcus replied. "But you must have come through, or at least passed it on your way here."

"I…uh…didn't exactly walk," Serana confessed. "At least, not all the way."

"Oh," Marcus said, flustered. "Then the tales I've heard about transformation—"

"Into a bat?" Serana finished for him. "Yes. And I don't really want to go into it, if that's alright."

Marcus put up his hands defensively. "Hey, you'll get no prying questions from me," he assured her. "I've got my own secrets to keep."

"Everyone has secrets," Serana observed. "Some are just better at keeping them than others."

There was a truth in that it was hard to deny. Serana might only look like a teen-ager; she was clearly much older. Just how long had she been trapped in that tomb? And how long had she been a vampire before being shut away? And did he really want to know the answer to those questions? Marcus tactfully decided to drop the subject.

"I think we'll need to head north first, though," he told her. "Sorine wanted me to find a priest of Arkay for them, and he's supposed to be at a place called Ruunvald." They spent a few moments as the morning light grew poring over Marcus' map until they found the place.

"That's quite a walk from here," Serana said dubiously.

"Just a couple of hours," Marcus assured her. "We'll find this Florentius fellow and convince him to come to Fort Dawnguard, then we'll head back to Riften and ask around for a Moth Priest."

"If you think that's best," Serana agreed. "I did say I wanted to see more of Skyrim."

Two hours later they crested the ridge that hid the Ruunvald excavation from casual observation below.

"This place looks abandoned," Serana remarked, kicking at the cold ashes in the fire pit. A layer of frost and thin snow lay over everything.

"Maybe Isran was wrong, and they aren't here after all," Marcus frowned. "Let's look around a bit. There might be a clue as to where they've gone."

A thorough search turned up nothing except a journal by someone named Volk.

" _Day 14_

 _I knew I should have volunteered for the excavation earlier. For months, Moric had been going on to the Vigilants about detecting mystical energies deep in the east mountains. Said he'd found some old tomes about the ruins of 'Ruunvald', or something the like, a Nordic chamber thousands of years old. I remember thinking, 'Yeah, if it's so old, how come no one's found it yet? There's plenty of adventurers wandering these parts.'_

 _Seemed like most of the other Vigilants agreed, we had more important things to do. But Moric took a team and went digging, and when he started turning up a long buried temple, well, did I feel like a troll in a dung heap!_

 _Soon enough, he was sending back letters to the Hall, begging for as many men as we could send. I didn't volunteer at first, still seemed like a myth to me. But when word came back that they'd hit the main chamber, I packed up and headed this way to help. Always did want to be a part of history, and better late than never, they say._

 _Well, 'they' didn't mention that the late comers would be stuck with guard duty. I just sit up here all day, watching for bandits and wolves, neither of which I've seen. Mostly I just see diggers coming up for supplies. Gotta say, I been seeing them a lot less regular, now that I think about it…_

 _Day 19_

 _All right, it's been 3 days since anyone's come up. The last one to emerge was Apa, and he just walked around a bit with a weird, vacant look in his eyes. Told Florentius and me to come down as soon as we had the chance, then trudged back in._

 _Something ain't right, and I aims to find out what…_

 _-Volk"_

Marcus finished reading the journal out loud. Something clearly wasn't right, Marcus knew, and he strongly suspected that poor Volk must have fallen victim to whatever had happened to the others.

"So, do we bother to go in?" Serana asked. "It seems like they were all possessed by something. This Florentius person might not even listen to us."

Marcus smiled grimly. "Serana, there is one thing you must know about me. It's the key to traveling with me, as you'll come to find out."

"What's that?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

The grin on the Dragonborn's face broadened. "I can never resist a mystery."

* * *

'So is your curiosity satisfied yet, Marcus?" Serana yelled as she dodged another blow from yet another possessed Vigilant.

"Do I have to answer that?" he yelled back, blocking a bone-crushing swipe from his opponent's mace with the dragonbone sword.

"I was just wondering if we were having fun yet," Serana smirked. The Vigilant was weakening, succumbing to the life-draining spell in one hand while fending off an attack from the thrall Serana had raised moments ago.

Marcus scowled, but he was gratified to see her coming more and more out of her shell. "You've got some strange ideas of fun, lady," he groused.

"What did you expect?" she quipped. "You've met my father!"

She was balancing lightly on the slat-and-rope bridge that spanned the lower excavation. Not only were there Vigilants here, possessed by some strange force, but their husky dogs were enthralled as well. They had attacked Marcus and Serana as soon as they had entered the diggings, without waiting for conversation. It had been one fight after another since then.

One of Serana's more unnerving tactics, Marcus realized immediately, was one she had used in Dimhollow Crypt – raising bodies to fight for her. While he hadn't really thought about it then, her victims mainly being skeletons and draugr, here they had been living, breathing, sentient beings not moments before they were cut down in defense of their lives. For a time the thralls shambled behind, rushing forward to attack the next wave of opponents, until the spell expired and they crumbled away to dust. Marcus was certain he'd heard one Vigilant moan, _"At last,"_ as it disintegrated. It made him shudder.

Still, she appeared to be trusting him more and more, and that was a good thing, if they hoped to have her cooperation in defeating her father.

The last Vigilant succumbed to Serana's thrall, who fell apart soon after. The two made their way through the rest of the lower diggings, avoiding the crossbow traps, until they came to a large, iron-bound wooden door. Along the way, Marcus had picked up several of Moric Sidley's journals, which told the story of a Vigilant slipping into possession by someone or something named Minorne. They still hadn't found Florentius, but Sidley's journal gave him hope the priest of Arkay was still alive.

" _There are fools in this world that do not heed to her beautiful voice,"_ he wrote, referring to Minorne. _"The guard, Florentius, sent from the Beacon, he still prays to Arkay, an absentee god who pales in comparison to Minorne! I will pray to the goddess I can see! May he rot in his cage!"_

They sat down near the door to rest for a bit. Serana didn't seem to need it, but Marcus told her he could use a breather.

"This place just goes on forever, doesn't it?" Serana remarked. "I don't know about you, but I think I've had my fill of caves for a while."

"A lot of my work takes place in caves," Marcus grinned.

"Your work?" Serana asked. "Just what is it you do?"

"That depends a great deal on who you talk to," Marcus had to admit. "What do you know about the ancient hero known as the Dragonborn?"

Serana thought back…very far back. Some of the earliest tales she could remember were of the Nord hero who could summon dragons and use the power of his voice to rule over others. She said as much to Marcus.

"Well, if it's done properly," he qualified, "the use of the _thu'um_ is meant for the glorification of the gods, not of men. But it goes beyond that."

"The Dragonborn was supposed to have the body of a mortal, but the soul and blood of a dragon," Serana mused. Her eyes widened. "Wait a minute! You're not—"

"Dragonborn," Marcus nodded.

"But that means you're supposed to – oh, what was that story? – fight the ancient evil dragon Alduin at the end of time!" There was an edge of panic in her voice.

"Relax," Marcus chuckled. "I've already done that. The world isn't going to end anytime soon – I hope. If we can stop your father's madness, that is."

"Wow," Serana breathed. "You really _are_ Dragonborn, then? That's what you were doing a bit ago when you were shouting and all that weird stuff started happening."

"It wasn't weird," Marcus said defensively. "I was very carefully and precisely softening up my opponent so that I could beat him."

"You shouted something at that woman, and she went flying across the room," Serana pointed out. "I don't know anyone who can do that. Seeing it for the first time…well, trust me, it was weird!"

Marcus chuckled. "Wait until I call down a dragon," he smirked.

Serana's glowing orange eyes widened further, but she said nothing as she briskly rose to her feet.

"Ready to push on?" she asked.

Marcus sensed she was feeling a bit overcome, sitting in the presence of – to her – a living legend. He smiled again and said, "Let's go. Hopefully we'll find Florentius still in one piece."

"Yeah, and whoever or whatever this Minorne is, too, that enthralled all these poor souls."

The Dragonborn hid a private smile. Serana still had empathy for others. That was a good sign that she wasn't as cold and heartless as Isran would make her out to be. There might just be some hope that somewhere, deep inside the vampire, was the girl she had once been, who had been denied the chance to live a normal life. He would have to proceed carefully, of course. If his experiences with teen-agers in both lives was any indication, they could be very touchy when their world-view was challenged.

The final chamber was vast, arching overhead beyond torchlight and comprised mainly of stone. A wooden log staircase led down from the ledge they stood on to a level below, and a barricade had been constructed to provide cover from ranged attacks. They peered through the slats of the barricade to see a raised platform at the far end of the chamber, accessible by a flight of stone steps. Hanging around the platform were several iron cages containing skeletons or decomposing bodies – except for one. Inside the furthest one a Redguard man was desperately fending off magical attacks from a robed Altmer woman, using his own arcane shields.

"Florentius," Serana whispered. "It has to be him. Didn't you say he was a Redguard?"

"That's what Sorine told me," Marcus murmured. "Look, there are two more Vigilants down there." He pointed at the bottom of the stairs. One was dressed in finer, more elaborate robes than the other.

"That one must be Moric Sidley," he guessed, "the author of these journals."

"We'd better get down there," Serana said softly. "I don't think Florentius is going to be able to hold out much longer."

"Alright," Marcus agreed, "but let me go first. I don't want to catch you in my Shout."

"I'm right behind you," Serana promised.

" _Zul mey gut!"_ he whispered, and on the far side of the chamber, his voice seemed to originate.

"Hey, skeever-face!"

The two Vigilants ran to investigate, and Minorne left off torturing poor Florentius to cross the platform and peer over the edge.

"That's pretty clever!" Serana admired. Now they could descend the steps without having to fight their way down.

"I don't often get a chance to use that one," he grinned, leading the way.

They were spotted halfway across the chamber, but by that time, Marcus could Shout again. The cool-down time for throwing his voice, he knew, was fairly short.

" _Hun kaal zoor!"_

It was the Call of Valor which Tsun had gifted him with during his trip to Sovngarde. He'd never used it, but felt they could use the help here.

A shimmering form coalesced in front of them, and Marcus saw the figure of Hakon One-Eye, ancient Tongue and hero of Sovngarde whose soul should have been destroyed by Alduin during his final battle with his nemesis.

"Hakon!" he cried gladly. "It's you!"

" _Aye, Dragonborn,"_ Hakon smiled. _"Through this Shout my soul is re-born. Now I may return to Shor's Halls when my time here is done."_

"If I had known that, I would have summoned you months ago!" Marcus grinned. "Look out! Incoming!"

Hakon's form whirled gracefully around to block an attack from the possessed Vigilant.

" _Brothers in arms, fighting together!"_ he exulted. _"This is a glorious day!"_

"Serana! Go get Florentius!" Marcus called to her, defending himself against Moric Sidley.

"I'm on it!" the girl assured him, and advanced on Minorne, who was coming down the steps.

"You fools!" shrieked Minorne. "You can't stop what I've begun here!"

"Wanna bet?" Serana threw back at her. "Face it, Minorne, you're little scam is over! We've beaten your priests and your pups. Give up and let the Redguard come with us."

"Never!" the Altmer hissed, and lobbed a fireball at Serana, who barely managed to dodge it in time. "I know what you are, you abomination! Fire will take care of you!"

She threw off two more firebolts in rapid succession, and Serana tumbled quickly to one side, but misjudged her distance and rolled off the edge of the stairs, disappearing over the edge. Landing hard, she glanced around quickly, searching in the gloom for a body to raise and finding none. Breathing hard, she drew her dagger – the only weapon she had – and prepared to face Minorne as the wizard came into view. Automatically, Serana reached out with one hand to begin draining the woman's life-force.

Minorne grinned cruelly as lightning sparked from her hands.

A sudden blast of ice from above speared through her and Serana spared a look upwards to see Florentius grinning, his teeth white against his dark face.

"Arkay doesn't like what you did to that poor child," he commented casually. "I don't like it either."

"You stay out of this, you worthless, pathetic, cadaver-worshipper!" Minorne gritted out. "When I'm done with this one I'll finish you off for good!"

"What's that, Arkay?" the priest said, looking upwards. "All bets are off?...Alright, if that's the way you want it." He turned back to Minorne. "Arkay wanted me to point out we don't worship cadavers, we only take care of them. Oh, and he wanted me to give you this."

Minorne hesitated. "What?" she glared suspiciously.

Two more bolts of ice shot through the Altmer woman, bringing her to her knees. "Well, that, for starters," he shrugged. "Well, don't wait, child," he said to Serana. "Finish her off!"

"Thanks!" Serana said, her strength recovered. She advanced on the helpless Minorne.

Across the room, Marcus and Hakon were fighting back-to-back against Moric Sidley and his fellow enthralled Vigilant. Sidley was proving to be no helpless priest. His fighting style was comparable to Marcus', and the Dragonborn was already bleeding in several places. Sidley wasn't looking much better, however, but that was small comfort to Marcus. He needed to end this quickly. He wasn't sure how much longer Hakon would be able to stick around.

The tingle in his throat finally eased, and he channeled his vital essences once more.

" _Iiz slen nuz!"_ he bellowed, and immediately, ice grew up around Moric Sidley, encasing him in a solid block. Inside, his eyes were fixed in horror at what had happened to him, before the light went out of them forever. Marcus felt only a slight pang of remorse before turning to help Hakon with the other Vigilant.

There was no need, however, as a final sweep of the ancient Hero's greatsword took the legs out from under his opponent, and the life from his body.

Marcus looked around for Serana and found her at the bottom of the steps, just in time to see her finish off Minorne. The Altmer woman whimpered, _"Nooo!"_ , as she died.

"Nice work," Marcus commented, coming up and seeing the body bristling with ice spikes. "Yours?"

"I had help," Serana admitting, pointing up to Florentius, who sat in the cage, his hands and legs stuck through the bars. He gave them a friendly wave from his perch.

"Let's get him out of there," Marcus said. He turned to Hakon. "Thank you, my friend. I don't know how I'd have managed without your help."

"You would have been fine, Dragonborn," Hakon smiled. "I have faith in you. And I look forward to the day when I will see you again in Sovngarde…just don't make it too soon, alright?"

"I promise nothing," Marcus grinned. "We never know when it's our time to go. I'm glad you'll have the chance to return. Say hello to everyone for me—" He broke off as a thought occurred to him.

"And tell Akatosh that I hope to be speaking with him again, soon. Only tell him that in private, okay?"

"I will deliver your messages, Dragonborn," Hakon promised. "Good luck. My time here is nearly done. Farewell!"

With that, the Hero vanished, and Marcus rejoined Serana at the top of the stairs, where she was struggling with the lock on the cage.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Trying to pick the lock," Serana admitted. "I'm just not any good at it, I guess."

"Let me try," Marcus offered, and she stepped aside to give him room. After several minutes, however, he had to give it up.

"That's one tough lock, Florentius," he apologized. "I don't know how we're going to get you out of there."

Florentius appeared to be listening to something else though. He was looking upwards, then faced Marcus and said, "Arkay suggests you see if Minorne had a key on her."

 _Of course,_ Marcus thought to himself. _Don't_ I _feel foolish, now?_

"Right," he grimaced. "Should have thought of that myself."

"I'll get it," Serana offered, and ran lightly back down the steps, returning a moment later with the key in hand.

"This should do it," she said, opening the lock and the door. Florentius stepped out and breathed a sigh of relief.

"I knew it!" he exclaimed joyfully. "I knew Arkay would save me. I asked for help and he sent you! You are both a very welcome addition to this dreary place, my friends. I owe both you and Arkay a great deal. I'm sure I'll manage to repay him later, but you two…what can I do to thank you?"

Marcus and Serana grinned at each other. It was Marcus who spoke.

"Well, for starters," he began, "Isran could use your help."

Florentius' face fell, and he glowered at them. "Isran?" he exclaimed disappointed. "My help? Is this…some kind of a joke? Did Arkay put you up to this?"

"No," Marcus began, but Florentius went on as if he hadn't spoken.

"Isran has done nothing but mock me," the priest of Arkay groused. "He's never given me the respect I deserve."

"But the situation is worse than you can imagine," Serana insisted, trying to reason with him. "We really do need your help."

"Look," Florentius sighed, "I've just gotten myself out of quite a mess here, in case you haven't noticed, and while I appreciate your help, I—"

He broke off suddenly and looked upwards, for all the world like a man listening to a superior. A change came over his face immediately. The cockiness vanished and he seemed more…humble.

"What's that?" he asked, and they knew it wasn't directed at them. "No!" he insisted, "that's not what I…yes, but…are you sure?" His tone became pleading. "Really?" At length he sighed. "Fine," he said in resignation. "Arkay says it's a good idea for me to go. I don't agree," he continued with a small measure of bravado, "but he's not the sort of fellow you can just ignore. I'll see you at Fort Dawnguard, then. Don't worry, Arkay will show me the way."

Marcus had the strong feeling, his own experiences with Akatosh notwithstanding, that Florentius truly _was_ speaking to the God of Death. He hadn't told Florentius where he was supposed to go, and yet the priest knew. Almost as proof of this, the Redguard turned back to them as he descended the stairs.

"Oh, and one more thing," he said, a curious expression on his face. "Arkay says to tell you, 'Message received, Dragonborn.' Hmph! Curious statement. Oh well," he shrugged, and continued on his way out.

"What did he mean by that?" Serana asked, a puzzled frown on her brow.

"Haven't a clue," the Dragonborn replied, but a grin split his face from ear to ear.

* * *

"A Moth Priest," Sigaar mused, when they asked him outside the stables of Riften. "Maybe I have, maybe I haven't. I'm too busy to pay attention to every traveler on the road, you know," he dismissed, but the speculative look in his eye told Marcus he knew more than he was willing to spill for free.

"Come on, Sigaar," Marcus pleaded. "You know me. And you know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

"Well," the carriage driver hedged, "you did save Ellamae and me from that dragon attack last year…"

"Because you're a good man, and a valuable member of Riften," Marcus encouraged. He wasn't ashamed to use what Faendal had called 'the Voice of the Emperor' to his advantage. "People don't appreciate the service you provide as well as they should."

"And don't I know it!" Sigaar agreed. "Alright, I saw some kind of Imperial scholar a few days ago pass through here. I asked him if he needed a ride, and he asked me if I went to Dragon Bridge. When I told him no, he said thank you very much, he'd walk. That's all I know. I'm not even sure he's your Moth Priest. Never seen one before, but then, I've haven't seen an Imperial scholar in these parts for a long time."

"Thanks, Sigaar!" Marcus said warmly. And despite hoping to get the information for free, he tossed up a small pouch of coins anyway, which Sigaar caught on the fly. "Come on, Serana," he said, heading down the hill on the road that led north out of Riften.

"We're walking all the way to Dragon Bridge?" she complained, surprised. "Why not take the carriage as far as Solitude and walk south from there?"

"Because I've got a faster way to get there," he smiled grimly. _If he'll cooperate, that is._

Once clear of the birch trees that surrounded the town, Marcus took a deep breath and called Odahviing. Several minutes later – during which time Marcus impressed on the local guards that he would take it as a personal favor if they didn't attack his dragon – the great red drake touched down. Serana gulped, but other than a whispered, "By the Blood of my Ancestors!" and a widening of her red-orange eyes, she said nothing.

"You have called, and I have come, _Thuri,"_ Odahviing rumbled. "What do you ask of me?"

"Serana and I need to get to Dragon Bridge as soon as possible," Marcus said firmly. "And you're going to take us."

Odahviing's eyes narrowed. _"Nid, Dovahkiin!"_ he growled. "My allegiance is to you alone, aside from the _Prok-Lahzey._ I am no _tah turog_ …pack mule!" he spat.

"Your allegiance to me means you'll do what I tell you to do, Odahviing," Marcus growled himself, and it was a very animal-like sound. "I've been very lenient with you. But this is an urgent matter, and I will not be gainsaid in this."

"My duty to you does not mean I must submit to humiliation, Thuri," the dragon insisted. "I will take you, but the _sosnaak_ must find her own way." Marcus found it interesting that he could tell at a glance Serana's true nature when everyone else seemed clueless. No one could say that dragons weren't observant.

"And I say you will take us both, Odahviing," Marcus said grimly. "Unless you wish to challenge my authority over you?"

Marcus saw several conflicting emotions race across the dragon's face and body. He was getting pretty good at reading dragon posture by now. The flare of the nostrils, the baring of the teeth, the narrowing of the eyes, all told him that Odahviing felt very strongly about this. But the frill around the back of his head had not flared out yet, and the tail was still curled around the hind legs, which told him that the dragon still desired to remain in his lord's good graces. This was a testing of boundaries, nothing more.

At Marcus' words, however, Odahviing reared up. "I do challenge!" he thundered. "I wear no _joordro ruuslid_ …mortal's collar!"

"You all might want to back up a bit," Marcus threw over his shoulder to the guards who had gathered. "This is between Odahviing and myself. Anyone else interferes, and they face my wrath, got it?"

"Aye, Dragonborn," Captain Ynga said. "I'll keep them out of it. You hear me men?" she called. "This is a private fight. You get in the way, and when the Dragonborn is done with you, you'll have to face me!"

Had this been a fight dragon-to-dragon, flight would have been involved. Each would have attempted to out-fly the other while inflicting damage. Marcus couldn't fly, however, which meant Odahviing would have to adjust his tactics to battling for supremacy against a ground-based opponent. For a dragon, this was not that difficult.

"You'd better come with me, miss," Captain Ynga told Serana.

"Where?"

"The watchtower over there," the woman pointed. "We'll have a better view from there, and we'll be out of the way."

"You don't need to tell me twice," Serana drawled, jogging down the road as Odahviing launched himself into the air.

It was a relatively short fight, only because both sides cheated. Marcus blasted Odahviing with Dragonrend as soon as he came around for a strafing run, and the dragon immolated Marcus with his flame breath. The dragon bone armor took the brunt of the burn, and the ring Marcus still wore that Tamsyn had made for him over a year ago took more. He was still singed, however, and the skin on his face and forearms above his gauntlets became red and blistered.

Grounded, Odahviing lumbered forward to snap and slash, while Marcus dodged and parried until the tingle in his throat told him he could Shout again. Odahviing disarmed him with a bellowed, _"Zun haal viik!"_ The blade made of dragon bone flew over Marcus' shoulder and landed several feet behind him.

" _Feim zii!"_ Marcus Shouted and went insubstantial just as Odahviing's jaws closed on where he had been.

The fact that the great red dragon knew more Shouts than Marcus wasn't lost on the Dragonborn. He was, after all, a dragon and had been at it a long time. Marcus knew he couldn't match the quantity of the firedrake's knowledge; he could only hope to outsmart him, as he had done in Dragonsreach. But he had no trap here in which to snare his opponent, and he didn't really want to kill Odahviing. This was a battle of wits and wills, and if he was any kind of Dragonborn, he had to come out the victor.

Odahviing's eyes tracked Marcus as he retreated to retrieve his sword. The nauseating feeling of death and decay was lessening, and he hoped to be free of it before the Dovahkiin could Shout again. But unfortunately, his Thuri was solid again, and seemed to have recovered much faster than he should have, because another wave of stultifying enervation swept over him as Marcus roared out, _"Joor zah frul!"_

A roar of frustration came from the great red dragon as, once again, he was pinned to the ground at the mercy of the Dragonborn. Marcus gave a smug smile of satisfaction.

"I can do this all day, Odahviing," he growled hoarsely past the rawness in his throat. "Do you submit?"

" _Yol toor shul!"_ was the response, and once more Marcus failed to dodge in time. He did, however, manage to tumble behind a tree and pull out a healing potion from his belt pouch.

"Now that wasn't very nice," he scolded, between swigs. "Someone needs to teach you some manners!" He downed the last of the potion and pulled out another small, white bottle. He seldom used these, preferring to face his problems head on, but he'd been carrying this one since Shadr had given it to him on his first trip to Riften.

The cool liquid tasted faintly of char and dust, and he choked it down, carefully putting the empty bottle back into his pouch. No need to let Odahviing know where he was by tossing away his empties. He waited a heartbeat or two until the potion had taken effect, then stepped out in full view of the dragon, who was still searching for him, peering right through him as though he wasn't there.

Grinning, Marcus crept closer, knowing he only had a minute or less to make his move before the potion's effects wore off. Odahviing swung his head away from Marcus, searching down the road with his eyes towards the Watchtower and Fort Greenwall. A belch of flame erupted in that direction, as the dragon attempted to find the Dragonborn by scorching him.

A sudden sound of armor jingling and approaching footsteps from his left side made him whip his head around as quickly as he could, with the sluggishness of mortality still upon him, but it was too little, too late. Marcus leaped straight up and landed on the dragon's wing. From there it was but the work of a few heartbeats to plant himself right behind the dragon's head and press the tip of his sword at the base of the skull, under the frill, where it was weakest.

The potion wore off and Marcus was visible once more, but it did Odahviing no good, who didn't happen to possess eyes in the back of his head.

Marcus leaned down, letting the point of the sword sink into the thick, scaly hide for emphasis.

"Do you yield now?" he asked, in a dangerously low, deceptively pleasant voice.

Odahviing hesitated. He could try to throw the _Dovakiin_ off, but the blade made from his brothers was too precariously close. The great red dragon had been dead once, and had no wish to revisit the nothingness of the Void.

" _Zu'u gahvon,"_ he rumbled docilely. "I…yield, _Thuri. Unslaad krosis fah dii vomidrot."_

Marcus relaxed and smiled, withdrawing his sword and sheathing it. _Innumerable pardons for my disloyalty,_ the dragon had said. "Don't let it happen again," he warned, firmly. With his children, he would have been forgiving and kind, but dragons saw this as a sign of weakness. With Odahviing, he would constantly have to assert his dominance. It was the only thing they respected.

" _Nid, Thuri,"_ Odahviing agreed meekly. "Call the _sosnaak_. I will take you both where you wish to go."

Marcus smiled grimly as he sheathed his blade. It was a major victory, he knew. Odahviing was no weakling; he was a powerful dragon in his own right, or he wouldn't have earned his name. This was a test of wills, and Marcus had won. Odahviing would do as he asked, now. It meant other ancient dragons might also fall into line, and he would need them if he hoped to develop an air force to use against the Thalmor. Whether other dragons would consent to carry someone who was not Dragonborn remained to be seen.

"Serana," he called out now. "Come on, let's go. Time's a-wasting."

"Coming!" the vampire girl breathed, running over and making a wide berth around Odahviing's head. The dragon regarded her curiously, but made no attempt to offer her harm.

The Dragonborn leaned down and grabbed Serana's hand, hauling her up behind him. "Hold on tight," he advised, putting her arms around his waist. "Grip with your knees, as you would ride a horse. Let's go, Odahviing, nice and easy for her sake."

Giant wings pumped, trunk-like legs crouched and pushed, and they were airborne. Serana gave a little yelp and shut her eyes, pressing herself as well as she could against the hard, spiky back of Marcus' dragon plate armor.

"I think I'm going to throw up!" she yelled past the rushing wind.

"Please don't do that," Marcus pleaded. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to get vomit out of dragonhide?"

"I would also appreciate you not dislodging the contents of your stomach on me," Odahviing growled.

Serana laughed weakly and opened her eyes as their flight path leveled off.

"Wow!" she gasped, looking around. "This is amazing!" For the rest of her life, she would always remember her first flight on dragonback. The entirety of Skyrim was laid out below her. To the west, in the distance, but rapidly approaching, was the Throat of the World, still towering above them. As they drew closer, a darker grey shape rose up from the peak and flew in their direction.

" _Drem yol lok, Dovahkiin,"_ it called, and Serana could see it was a huge, silver-gray dragon. "What brings you this way with Odahviing?"

"Just passing through, Paarthurnax," Marcus shouted back, not using the _thu'um_. "On our way to Dragon Bridge. Something's on the wind, and I need to figure out what's going on."

"May Kyne's breath lend speed to your wings, Brother," Paarthurnax replied, ducking his head, and Serana wasn't sure if he was talking to Marcus or Odahviing. "I will not keep you in your mission."

"I'll be back to see you soon," Marcus promised. From here he could see a half-dozen smaller dragons perched on lesser peaks around the Word Wall, which was the old grey dragon's favorite place to roost. Lower down, on the other side of the mountain, was the monastery known as High Hrothgar.

"I've heard of that place!" Serana exclaimed. "I think it dates back to the First Age."

"I think you're right," Marcus agreed. "The Greybeards live there now. I've spent a lot of time there."

Serana said nothing, but turned as they passed the Throat of the World and watched it retreat into the distance. Below them, the plains of Whiterun Hold stretched before them, with smaller outcroppings of hills and peaks jutting up from the tundra. Herds of mammoths filed slowly across, heading from one watering hole to the next, guided by their giant companions, lumbering along beside them.

"Have you ever encountered a giant?" she asked now, shouting to make herself heard.

"A few times," Marcus admitted. "I tend to leave them alone, though. They generally don't bother people. If one does, the Jarl will ask me to sort it out, but that's rare."

"Which Jarl?" Serana inquired.

"Any of them," Marcus shrugged, making her tighten her grip nervously. "Mostly Whiterun, the Pale or the Rift, where they tend to congregate. I used to spend way too much time dealing with the Jarl of the Pale, Skald the Elder. He was a bigoted old cuss who hated anything that wasn't a Nord. He only tolerated me because I'm the Dragonborn. He used to send for me to kill every giant in the Pale, even when the Empire told him to leave them alone. He got mad at me when I refused to do it unless they actually were a menace to people."

"You said 'was'," Serana pointed out. "He's not Jarl anymore?"

"No," Marcus said, shaking his head. "He died of a wasting disease last winter. His court mage-turned-healer couldn't find a cure. She didn't ask for help until after Skald died. Pity; he might have lived if he'd treated her kinder."

"And you think _I'm_ blood-thirsty," Serana murmured, but Marcus' wolf-senses gave him better hearing than a normal human's, and he heard her anyway.

"I don't think you're blood-thirsty, Serana," he said kindly, surprising her. "I think you just want to live your life the way you choose. You've had every opportunity to go after people, but you haven't. And don't feel too sorry for Skald. He brought it upon himself. Brina Merelis is Jarl in the Pale now, and the people are a lot happier."

Serana didn't answer. She hadn't gone after anyone because she hadn't been thirsty, but over the last couple of days, it had been growing, and she knew she would have to feed soon. She had last fed before she'd arrived at Fort Dawnguard, on a couple of bandits hanging around a tumbled-down ruin near Stendarr's Beacon. It was enough, but she knew it would only hold her for just so long before she would need to feed again. Already, the effects of the sun were beginning to wear on her.

They flew on, past Rorikstead, and angled slightly to the north past the Karth River, following it up to the small village of Dragon Bridge, so-named for the impressive ancient bridge that spanned the river. Constructed of carefully set, unmortared stones, and surmounted by a keystone in the shape of a dragon's head, it was a point of pride for the community, and an attraction for travelers who came through the area.

Odahviing set them down just outside of town and they crossed the bridge to begin making inquiries. No one, however, appeared to have taken notice of any Imperial scholars. Even Commander Maro was of no help.

"We've been pretty busy, as you can imagine, Dragonborn," he said guardedly, eyeing Serana suspiciously. "I haven't got the man-power to monitor the roads through town. I leave that to the Haafingar guard."

But the guards weren't much help, either. "People come through here all the time," one of them told him. "Dragon Bridge is on a well-traveled road that leads to most of the rest of Skyrim. Citizens, nobles, Reachfolk, Khajiit – they all come through here eventually. If a Moth Priest came through, I couldn't tell you."

"I guess that's it, then," Serana said morosely. "We'll never find a Moth Priest now."

"I saw one!" a young voice said excitedly.

Marcus turned to see a small boy and a goat watching them from a short distance. The child was probably seven or eight years old and carried a stick thrust through his rope belt. Serana lifted her eyebrows doubtfully, but Marcus grinned and crouched down to the boy's level.

"What's your name, son?" he asked kindly.

"Clinton," the boy answered proudly, "Clinton Lylvieve, and I'm going to be a soldier someday!"

He drew his stick and waved it wildly about.

"Whoa ho!" Marcus exclaimed, holding up his hands. "You've certainly got the spirit, but I think you've left yourself wide open. Here," he offered, moving around behind the boy and guiding him. "Let me show you."

He patiently put the boy through some of the same routines he had taught his own children and spent at least a half hour sparring with him with a stick he picked up off the ground.

"You'll need some armor when you get older," he told the boy. "But keep practicing. Do you have a wooden sword?"

"No," Clinton said, downcast. "My Pa can't afford it. We're farmers, and everything Pa earns has to go to taking care of the farm."

"Well, a stick works just as well if you know how to use one," he encouraged, making a mental note to himself. "Just keep practicing. Maybe you can train Lucky, there, to be a war-goat," he suggested, pointing to the billy who was grazing nearby.

"Are there such things?" Serana asked skeptically. She wouldn't be a bit surprised. So much had changed since she had been sealed away.

"Maybe not right now," Marcus allowed. "Who's to say there couldn't be? Who's to say young Master Clinton here couldn't grow up to command an entire legion of war-goats?"

Serana rolled her eyes, but Clinton's were shining. "I'll bet I could!" he cried. "I'll be the best war-goat commander ever!"

"You'll be the first," Serana muttered.

"Now, about this Moth Priest you saw," Marcus suggested.

"Oh yeah!" Clinton said, remembering. "I saw him this morning. At least, I've never seen a Moth Priest before. I don't even know what one is, but I saw an old man in a robe riding in a wagon with some Imperial guards. They didn't stop to visit, though," he added, a bit disappointed. He'd wanted to talk to the soldiers about the battles they'd been in. "They rode through town heading south, and went across the big bridge. It was only a little bit ago," he continued. "I bet you can catch them if you hurry up."

"We could have caught them a half hour ago if you'd just asked the child outright," Serana complained quietly.

"We'll catch up to them," Marcus assured her. "I know which way the roads go from here, and we can cut across country, which a wagon can't do."

"If you say so," she shrugged.

He turned back to Clinton and pressed a few coins into the boy's hand. "Thanks, son," he smiled. "Keep practicing. Maybe I'll see you again next time I come through."

"Thanks, mister!" the boy breathed in awe. Five whole septims! He hadn't seen that much money in all his life! He ran off to share his good fortune with his sister, Julienne.

"So I take it you're pretty well known throughout Skyrim?" Serana asked as they set off once more across the bridge.

"I think most people know _of_ me," Marcus replied, "but that doesn't mean they know my face. Why?"

"The child never asked your name or anything," she mused. "Do you think he knew you're the Dragonborn?"

"I'm sure he doesn't have a clue," Marcus chuckled. "And it doesn't really matter to him. All he knows is that a kind stranger gave him some fighting lessons and was kind to him. And he got a few coins to spend out of it, too. Of course," he continued, grinning, "if he describes me to anyone who knows me, he'll find out soon enough!"

"What would make you so different from any other soldier or mercenary coming through his town?" she asked.

"The armor," Marcus answered, tapping his chest. "There aren't many who can afford dragon plate armor. You have to kill a dragon to get the raw materials."

"Oh." Serana subsided. She was learning that this Marcus of Whiterun, who was called 'Dragonborn', was a very strange man indeed, unlike any she'd met before. He was firm when he needed to be, he stood his ground when he had to and negotiated when it was possible. He was kind to almost everyone they'd met, but never allowed himself to be taken advantage of. And she'd only known him, really, for a handful of days. She was beginning to wish her father had been more like this man in her company. Perhaps he wouldn't have been as easily seduced by that dreadful prophecy.

She tried to think back to the days before her turning, but it was so long ago, and the memories had already faded. All she remembered clearly was the time that came after. It seemed she had always been a vampire, but she knew that wasn't true. The horror of the ritual that had made her what she was was still too real in her mind. It was like a scab that never healed, and she couldn't help picking at it, leaving it raw and open. She had _trusted_ them…they were her parents. They were supposed to protect her. It was bad enough her father suggested it, but for her mother to go along with it…that was the ultimate betrayal. Her mother assured her she would be right there and stay with her, but it was a lie. She'd known it as soon as Molag Bal fixed his leer on her and told her parents, _"Leave us,"_ in a voice that demanded absolute obedience.

"Be strong," her mother whispered to her, and then she was gone, and there was only the Daedric Prince of Domination, the King of Rape and Lord of Brutality who took complete possession of her soul and body.

Her mind shied away from the horror of that time. Somewhere amidst the ritual that involved all manner of brutal sexual assault upon her person, she had fainted. When she awoke, she felt…different. She was alone, but not for long, as her mother approached her silently and opened her arms. At first, Serana wanted to rebuff her.

" _You let this happen to me!"_ she wanted to rage. But this was her mother, even though her skin was paler than white now, and her eyes glowed an unholy orange. "You are truly one of us now," her mother intoned. And that was when Serana realized she had become a vampire.

They had retired to a small island off the coast of Skyrim, after her father had put most of the occupants to the sword or the fang. He rounded up scores of humans and mer to feed upon and shrouded the castle in mist to help block the sun from its walls. They had lived there, not completely happy it had to be admitted, for centuries, letting the world pass them by – until that horrible day when her father stumbled upon an ancient prophecy and became obsessed with it.

"Are you alright, Serana?" Marcus asked kindly, breaking into her thoughts, and she shook her head to clear it.

"I will be," she replied. "And…thank you for asking."

"You were a million miles away," he remarked, concerned.

"I'm fine," she insisted. "Let's just keep moving."

Marcus knew enough to let it drop. If she wanted to talk about what was on her mind, she would. He couldn't rush a confidence.

They had gone about a two miles south of Dragon Bridge when they saw the overturned cart and the bodies strewn about. Breaking into a run, they rushed up to find out if anyone survived. There lay the Imperial guards. Whoever did this even killed the horse, though Marcus could see no reason for the attackers to have done so. Horses were valuable, and could be sold for a fair price. He had a feeling this wasn't a bandit attack. The 'old man in robes' was nowhere to be found, but among the weeds at the side of the road Serana found the body of a vampire.

"That's my father's armor," she said. "I mean, he designed it. Everyone in the castle wore it. You know what this means, don't you?"

"Yeah," Marcus grumbled. "It means your father has somehow learned about needing a Moth Priest to read the Scrolls, too. But he doesn't have the Scroll…you do."

"He could have sent these before I left," Serana pointed out.

"Or he could be intending to bring you back," Marcus returned. He didn't like to think what Harkon might do to his own daughter if he caught up to her. He'd as much as told Serana he'd kill her own mother.

"I won't go back!" the vampire girl said stubbornly.

"I don't think that's going to be your choice, Serana," Marcus said gently. "We need to see if we can figure out where the Moth Priest went."

"She had this on her," Serana said, holding out a bit of parchment.

Marcus took it and read it out loud.

" _I have new orders for you. Prepare an ambush just south of the Dragon Bridge. Take the Moth Priest to Forebear's Holdout for safekeeping until I can break his will. –Malkus."_

He stepped away from the cart, where the smell of blood was overpowering. The beastblood was rising in him, and the last thing he wanted was to scare the daylights out of Serana by turning into a werewolf. She knew, of course; he'd already admitted what he was in front of her father, but that didn't mean he wanted her to witness his changing.

"Are _you_ alright?" Serana asked, coming up and putting a hand on his shoulder. "You're smelling more strongly of wet dog than ever."

"It's the blood," he said shortly. "I'm okay, but we'd best get away from here. Don't worry," he added, smiling for her benefit. "If I go wolf, I won't hurt you. I think I've got a pretty good grip on the beast within me now. We need to find this Forebear's Holdout."

"Can you track them there?" she asked, orange eyes glittering.

Marcus inhaled deeply. The remnants of scent were still hanging in the air, and his keen eyes had already picked up spatters of blood further up the road. "I can track them," he nodded. "This way."

He took off down the road, across another, smaller bridge, and past another cart that had been attacked. Marcus felt enraged; these poor people had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had paid the ultimate price. They were simple merchants, but the vampires viewed them as a threat and had wiped them out.

Grimly, he turned north, along the same road he had raced as Wolf not long ago. The trail led to a cave back up in the hills, that Serana told him was called Forebear's Holdout, and the two paused outside.

"I don't know what we're going to find inside," he warned her. "I'm pretty sure the Moth Priest is in here, because I followed that scent all the way. It was different from the others."

"You're not leaving me out here," Serana said firmly. "I'm going in there, too."

Marcus pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his dark brown hair before replacing his headgear. "Okay, fine," he said at length. "Just try to stay behind me if you can."

"Are you going to Shout again?" she asked, unable to keep the excitement from her voice.

"No," he told her. "I don't want to attract unwanted attention. We'll try to sneak in and get close enough to see what's going on."

"Oh," Serana replied, disappointed. "Alright, if that's how you want to do it. Lead on."

He had every intention of being as quiet as he told her they should be. But as they made their way inside he could smell death hounds, and the rage he felt for what they had done to Adrianne welled up in him. Wolf wanted out, and Marcus realized he might have a better chance of fighting the vampires if he gave his inner beast his head.

"Change of plans," he growled to Serana, as the beastblood took over. Her eyes widened as he changed, but to her credit she remained silent and waited for him to finish. "This way," he growled, grateful that at least he could still communicate.

Marcus met the two death hounds head on, going for the throat of the first, and lashing out with his powerful claws on the second. Serana pelted them with ice spikes which seemed to have little effect, but the life-draining spell had better success. With the hounds out of the way they circled the ravine to cross over at the bridge and come through the main gate of a large hidden fortress inside the cavern.

The two vampires and the thrall inside hit Marcus with everything they had, and a part of his mind was glad Serana had his back. The first vampire went down to his mauling, and instinctively Wolf ripped out the dead heart, devouring it. Surprisingly, he felt a renewed vigor course through him, and Marcus remembered Hircine telling him that as he grew stronger, he would eventually be able to feed off the dead. It sounded disgusting, but right now he knew he would need any advantage he could get.

Serana took out the thrall with her spells and they both ganged up on the second vampire, but this one was much more powerful than the other. Serana soon found herself backed up against a wall, desperately trying to drain the life from her opponent, who somehow managed to keep both of them at bay. Marcus felt the sting of the ice spikes shot at him, and the weariness of the drain on his life-essence, and knew if they didn't finish this quickly he was going to be in trouble.

With a supreme effort he bounded up the wall to his right and grabbed an overhanging beam of wood jutting through the stone. Using the momentum of his leap he swung himself up onto the wall that ran around the inner courtyard and leaped off to land on top of the vampire, bearing him down to the ground, where he savaged it brutally. In a moment, it was over, and he felt slightly renewed from the heart he had consumed.

"You're mean when you're a beast," Serana commented shakily.

"Comes with the territory," Marcus huffed. "I need a moment. How about you?"

"A quick one," Serana said. "Something's going on up there at the top of the tower. I'm betting that's where we'll find the Moth Priest."

"His scent leads that way," Marcus agreed, sniffing the air. "There are two more vampires there, and another thrall. When you're ready, we'll finish this."

"Can you drink a potion?" Serana asked.

Marcus gave a wolfish grin, showing all his teeth. Serana blinked, but held her ground. "They're all a part of me now. Can't explain it. It's like everything is melded together. Besides," he growled, holding up his clawed front paws. "These aren't exactly made to open bottles."

Serana grinned. "I guess not," she acquiesced. "I feel ready now. What about you."

"As I'll ever be," Marcus nodded. He was surprised to notice how quickly he healed in wolf form; and it was faster if he fed, though it still revolted him.

They quietly climbed the stairs they found at the back of the courtyard, inside a broken tower. At the top there was a jumble of stones and wooden beams in their way, but beyond that they could see the top floor of the fortress, which was roofless, and open to the rest of the cavern. In the center of this area was a circle of black stones illuminated with glowing, neon-blue lines that swirled around the irregularly shaped rocks. In the center of these stones stood a lone figure of a balding, elderly man in long white robes. He appeared to be contained in some sort of force field emanating from the stones.

The two vampires and the thrall were casting spells at the priest inside the shield; clearly, it was designed to contain him, not protect him.

"That's a Weystone Circle," Serana whispered. "I haven't seen one of those in ages!"

She had little awareness of the irony of her statement.

One of the vampires was speaking.

"The more you fight me, the more you will suffer, mortal."

"I will resist you, monster," the priest said defiantly, but there was little strength in his voice. "I must!"

"How much longer can you keep this up, Moth Priest?" the vampire sneered. "Your mind was strong, but you're exhausted from the struggle."

"Must…resist…" the Priest tried to say.

"Yes," the master vampire gloated. "I can feel your defenses crumbling. You want it to end. You want to give in to me. Now, acknowledge me as your master!"

Almost involuntarily, the Priest murmured, "Yes…master…"

That was enough for Marcus. He leaped on the closest vampire and took her out before the others knew he was there. Serana concentrated on the thrall, and raised a skeleton from a pile of bones in the corner to help them. The master vampire was an Orc, and was undoubtedly Malkus, the author of the note they'd found. He was probably the most powerful vampire Marcus had met yet, and his first action was to raise a body lying nearby. It was one of the Imperial guards who had been escorting the priest. Marcus didn't think Serana's skeleton would be much of a match for this thrall. He knew he had to take out the master vampire as quickly as possible.

That proved to be difficult, however, since Malkus had no intention of giving up without a fight. Wave after wave of life-drain hit Marcus as he raked out again and again with his claws. He could see immediately what the problem was: every strike he made was being repaired by the drain on his own life. He was getting weaker while the vampire lord seemed unaffected.

Marcus saw Serana attempt to raise the vampire he'd first taken out, but Malkus beat her to it. Now she had two thralls fighting her, and while she was skilled with her life-draining and ice spike spells, she was getting worn out keeping both opponents at bay. Malkus was beating the crap out of him, and Marcus knew they were getting beaten. He couldn't take the time to change back, and he couldn't leave Serana to face all their enemies alone.

" _Howl,"_ Hircine said in his mind.

"What good will that do?" Marcus growled, not even caring that he spoke aloud.

" _Trust me,"_ the Lord of the Hunt gloated.

 _But I don't,_ Marcus thought privately. Still, there wasn't any harm in trying. He backed away, raised his head and howled.

Two ghostly wolves appeared, as misty red as the bloodmoon. They leaped on the master vampire, giving Marcus a chance to fall back and lash out at the Imperial thrall. Serana sent ice spikes towards the master vampire, and her skeleton brought the Imperial down, just as it disintegrated to dust.

Now the master vampire was the one backed into a corner as he fended off attacks from one of his own kind, as well as two ghostly wolves and an enraged werewolf. Soon it was over, and the two ghostly wolves howled once for Marcus before they disappeared.

"Well, you're certainly full of surprises," Serana remarked as he reverted back to human form. "Is there anything else you'd like to share with me? Are you secretly a master wizard, too?"

Marcus gave a weak laugh. "No, I leave that sort of thing to my wife." He stared at the force field, the figure inside still and unmoving. "So, any ideas how to take that thing down?" he asked.

"Well, if I remember rightly," Serana mused, "each Weystone Circle had a focus stone that activated it. If we can find the stone and the receptacle it goes into, we should be able to dispel the force field."

They searched the ash piles left behind from the thralls, as well as the bodies of the two vampires. On Malkus' body they found another note and a curious stone, striped in the same hues of neon blue as the force field. Marcus read the note out loud.

" _The prophesied time has come. I have reclaimed one of my lost Elder Scrolls, and now I must have a Moth Priest to read it. For the one who brings me a Moth Priest, I promise a high place in my court, and the gift of my potent blood. Go forth and find me a Moth Priest. This is my command. – Lord Harkon."_

Serana whistled. "He was going to give them his blood? No wonder they were after the poor man!"

"I don't get it," Marcus said. "Malkus was already a vampire. What difference would your father's blood make?"

"All the difference in the world!" Serana exclaimed. "These were just feral vampires. They were probably turned by some lesser vampire living out in the wild. It's probably why they holed up here. To be given my father's blood. That's like…well, that's like suddenly becoming vampire royalty. They would become much more powerful, like some of the ones you saw at my father's court."

"I see," was all Marcus said. Harkon had just upped the ante. Not only was Serana's life in danger, but this Moth Priest's as well. It hadn't escaped his notice that the note must have been written shortly after he had returned Serana to her home, but before she'd left it with the Elder Scroll to come and find him. "You mentioned a receptacle for this thing?" he asked, hefting the stone.

"I think it's up here," Serana said, climbing to the top of an overlooking balcony. In the center of the railing was a carved stone well, just the right size to seat the Weystone focus into it. When they did, the shield dissipated, but something wasn't right. The priest was clearly still under the thrall of Malkus.

"I serve my master's will," he droned, "but my master is dead, and his enemies will pay!"

"Hey, wait a minute!" Marcus yelped as the priest drew an Akaviri-style blade and came after him.

The Moth Priest might have been old, but he was a master with the sword, and it was all Marcus could do to defend himself without hurting the priest. Serana, however, had no such qualms, and shot him several times with ice spikes.

"Serana!" Marcus cried, "what the hell do you think you're doing! We need to keep him alive!"

"Not if he's going to kill you!" she shouted. "We'll find another Moth Priest if we have to!"

But apparently, the ice shocked the priest out of whatever thrall he had been under.

"Wait! Stop, I beg you!" he pleaded. "That…that wasn't me you were fighting!"

"It sure looked like it," Serana muttered.

"I could see through my eyes, but I could not control my actions," the old man explained. "Thank you for breaking that foul vampire's hold over me."

"Are you alright?" Marcus asked, concerned. The old man looked to be about the age he had been when his former life had ended. He knew how questionable his own health had been then.

"I am now, thanks to the two of you," the priest beamed. "Dexion Evicus is my name, and I am a Moth Priest of the White Gold Tower. These vampires claimed they had some purpose in store for me, but they wouldn't say what. Probably hoping to ransom me, the fools. Now, tell me: whom do you represent? And what do you want with me?"

"I'm Marcus of Whiterun," the Dragonborn said, "and this is Serana Volkihar. As you can probably tell, she's a vampire, but she's with me and won't hurt you. Will you, Serana?"

"I'm not hungry right now, so no," the girl replied mischievously, and Dexion took a step or two back.

Marcus scowled at her. "Behave yourself, young lady. I'm trying to put our friend here at ease!"

Serana grinned but dropped a curtsey to Dexion. "Sorry. I'll behave," she smiled. Doing so revealed her pointed fangs, so it really wasn't any more reassuring than her comment had been. Marcus rolled his eyes.

"We're with the Dawnguard," he explained to the Moth Priest. "And actually, we need you for the same reason those vampires did: to read an Elder Scroll."

"Yes," Dexion said slowly. "I noticed the one the young lady is carrying. Remarkable!"

"You know, I'm older than the two of you put together," Serana complained.

"But you don't look a day over twenty," Marcus grinned at her. "That makes you younger than me in my book."

"If my knowledge of history serves me," Dexion interrupted, "I recall that the Dawnguard was an ancient order of vampire hunters. I will be happy to assist you with your Elder Scroll. Just tell me where I need to go."

"Oh, no," Marcus replied, shaking his head. "I'm not taking any chances. We'll take you there ourselves. I'm not risking you getting captured by another group of vampires looking for a Moth Priest."

"I would be glad of the company, then," Dexion said graciously.

They left the ruins and made their way outside of the cavern where Marcus summoned Odahviing once more. Dexion's eyes widened in awe as the dragon settled on the road and waited for orders from his _thuri._

"Did he…just call that dragon down?" he whispered to Serana.

"That he did," Serana said smugly, though the sight still sent a thrill through her. "He's the Dragonborn."

"Amazing!" Dexion breathed.

Marcus ordered Odahviing to carry all of them back to Fort Dawnguard. "You can land on the roof this time," he told the firedrake. "And you're not going to give me any grief about it, understand?"

"As my _thuri_ commands," Odahviing said submissively, though he grunted a little as they all clambered aboard. He was a bit slower getting off the ground, and flew a bit lower than usual as well. Marcus realized that three was probably the maximum the dragon would be able to carry.

Nevertheless, they made it safely to Fort Dawnguard in just under an hour, and while Dexion at first clutched Marcus' shoulders tightly, he soon relaxed when he realized he wasn't going to fall, and actually began to enjoy the trip.

"I never imagined I would ever see Skyrim from this angle," he commented.

"I never get tired of it, either," Marcus grinned.

Serana handed off the Elder Scroll to the Moth Priest when they landed. Marcus hung back.

"I'm going to hunt with Odahviing," he told them, patting the dragon's neck. "I think he deserves a reward for his efforts. I'll be back in a little while."

Hunting with the dragon was something Marcus had done on several occasions. It was a sort of bonding ritual between the _dov_ to hunt together. And while Marcus couldn't fly or catch his prey the way dragons did, it helped him perfect his archery while riding on a moving mount. The one thing he made sure never to do was to take out a beast the dragon had his eye on. It was considered poor manners to steal another dragon's kill.

Odahviing's eyes lit up upon hearing this plan, and they spent a much more satisfying hour – at least from the dragon's point of view – running down wildlife for the dragon to feed upon.

"I knew you were the strongest of the _dov,"_ Marcus said admiringly as they returned to Fort Dawnguard. "I don't think any of the others could have pulled off that last kill. That bear was behind a shield of rock, for Shor's sake!"

"Indeed," the great red dragon rumbled, preening. "I believe I took out four kills to your three." Dragons were vain creatures, after all, and a little flattery went a long way towards soothing indignation.

Marcus chuckled and left his draconian companion to recover from his exertions on the rooftop while he went inside to hear what Dexion could learn from the Elder Scroll.

He found both Serana and the Moth Priest in the central hall. Isran had joined them, upon hearing them come down the stairs.

"Is everything ready?" Marcus asked Isran.

"Yeah," the Dawnguard leader said. "I can't believe you actually found a Moth Priest." He shook his head in disbelief. "The old man has the Scroll, so just let him know when you're ready."

Dexion smiled upon seeing Marcus. "Ah!" he exclaimed. "My rescuer! It's good to see you again."

"Are you settled in okay, then?" Marcus asked.

"It's not exactly the hospitality I'm used to," the old priest admitted, "but your man Isran has seen to my needs well enough. And might I add, this is a remarkable fortress! I have colleagues back home that would love to study this place in detail."

Marcus looked around and realized that quite a bit had been done inside while he was gone. There were more sconces burning along the walls, for one thing, and someone had cleaned out all the cobwebs. The barrels lining the walls when he had first come here had been moved, and the haystacks at the end furthest from the main doors had been cleaned up. The water in the trench smelled better, too, and Marcus could only assume it had been flushed.

He heard more voices coming from other parts of the fortress, too, echoing through the corridors, and the smell of roasted meat was drifting in from the dining hall, mingled with the smell of trolls. He certainly hoped they weren't penning the trolls in the same area where people were expecting to eat. In the distance, he heard Bran and Sceolang yipping in excitement, and laughter answering the huskies. Fort Dawnguard was coming back to life.

"Well," Marcus smiled, turning to Dexion. "I'm ready when you are."

"Of course!" the Moth Priest agreed excitedly. "Let us begin!"

He pulled the Scroll off his back and cautioned everyone present. "Now, if everyone will please be quiet, I must concentrate."

He opened the Scroll and peered into its unfathomable depths, frowning to make sense of the swirling images only he could see.

"I see a vision before me," Dexion intoned, in a voice that seemed to come from a great distance. "An image of a great bow…I know this weapon! It is Auriel's Bow! Now a voice whispers, saying, 'Among the night's children, a dread lord will arise.'"

He frowned again, struggling to see as much of the vision as he could.

"'In an age of strife, when dragons return to the realm of men, darkness will mingle with light and the night and day will be as one.' The voice fades, and the words begin to shimmer and distort. But wait, there is more here."

Sweat broke out upon his brow as he endeavored to keep the images visible.

"The secret of the bow's power is written elsewhere," he continued faintly. "I think there is more to the prophecy, recorded in other Scrolls. Yes…I see them now…One contains the ancient secrets of the dragons, and the other speaks of the potency of ancient blood." His shoulders slumped, and his hands lowered. His face was pale and drawn. "My vision darkens, and I see no more," he apologized. "To know the complete prophecy, we must have the other two Scrolls."

Marcus stepped closer to catch the priest before he sank to the ground. He carefully took the Scroll from Dexion as Isran came up on the priest's other side and took him by the arm.

"Come on, old man," he said, in a kinder voice than Marcus had ever heard from him. "Let's get you someplace where you can rest." He led Dexion off to the barracks to find him a bed to sleep in.

"Wow," Serana commented. "I didn't think Isran had a kind bone in his body."

"People often surprise you," Marcus said. "It's a positive sign. It means he's not as much of a hard-ass as he'd like people to believe."

"Or maybe we just caught him in a weak moment," Serana sniffed. "So, can we talk about what just happened?"

Marcus turned back to face her. "Sure, Serana, what's on your mind?"

"That Moth Priest, Dexion," she began. "He said we needed two other Elder Scrolls. I think I know where we can start looking."

"That's good," Marcus grinned, "because I already have the one pertaining to dragons. We would just need to find the one about ancient blood. But why didn't you say anything earlier?"

Serana snorted. "Half the people in your little crew here would just as soon kill me as talk to me," she pointed out, and he couldn't disagree with that. "That doesn't exactly make me want to open up. I got a warmer welcome from my father, and that's saying something."

"Ouch," Marcus acknowledged. "Does Harkon even care about you anymore?" he felt compelled to ask.

Serana looked troubled. "You know, I've been asking myself the same thing. I thought…" She broke off and walked over to the stone bench that surrounded the hall and sat down, hands folded in her lap. Marcus sat down next to her.

"I hoped that if he saw me, he might feel something again," Serana said in a low voice, and the tremble in her tone told Marcus how hurt she felt at her own reception at Volkihar Keep. "But I guess I don't really factor in at this point," she continued, making a valiant effort not to burst into tears. "I don't think he even sees me as his daughter anymore. I'm just…a means to an end."

Marcus wanted to put his arms around her and comfort her as he would Sofie or Lucia, but he knew she didn't trust him enough for that. He sat there next to her in quiet companionship while she got herself under control. Serana, he knew, was facing some brutal hard truths about what the prophecy had done to her father, and what being a vampire had done to her family. All he could do at this point was lend moral support while she worked her way through it.

"So," he began gently after several moments, "where is this Elder Scroll that you know about?"

Serana raised her head and blinked her orange eyes rapidly to get rid of unshed tears.

"We need to find my mother, Valerica," Serana said. "She'll definitely know where it is. And if we're lucky, she actually has it herself."

"But you said you didn't know where she went," Marcus felt obliged to point out.

Serana shrugged, her dark hair rippling in the torchlight. "The last time I saw her, she said that she'd go someplace safe…somewhere that my father would never search," she offered. "Other than that, she wouldn't tell me anything. But the way she said it…'someplace he would never search.' It was cryptic, yet she called attention to it."

Marcus chose his next words carefully. "Maybe your mother didn't trust you, either."

Serana's shoulders slumped as she accepted the truth of his statement.

"That's always a possibility," she admitted. "She was almost as obsessed as my father by the time she…shut me in." A shadow passed over her face, and Marcus wondered – not for the first time – how long she had been trapped in that tomb. Was she aware of the passage of time? How had she survived without feeding? He shuddered inwardly. What kind of mother could do something like that to her own child?

"But I can't worry about that right now," Serana continued briskly, as if attempting to banish the demons that plagued her mind. "We need the Scroll, and she's our only lead. Besides, I can't imagine a single place my father would avoid looking. And he's had all this time, too." She turned to Marcus. "Any ideas?"

Marcus considered this. His first thought was the Dawnguard, but that was too ridiculous. It was his understanding that the Dawnguard was reforming after a long hiatus, and they would certainly have noticed a vampire in their midst.

"I don't know," he said slowly. "Maybe she sealed herself away somewhere, too?"

"I don't think so," Serana said, shaking her head. "She said she wanted to stay awake, in case things changed. Anything else?"

Marcus frowned. Where would someone go to remain hidden, and yet be in a place no one would think to look? They sat in silence for several moments, pondering the dilemma. Suddenly, Marcus remembered an ancient proverb he'd read a lifetime ago. _Keep your friends close and your enemies closer._

"What about Castle Volkihar?" he suggested.

Serana's eyes widened. "Wait a minute! That almost makes sense!" She stood and began pacing excitedly. "There's a courtyard in the castle. I used to help her tend a garden there. All of the ingredients for our potions came from there. She used to say that my father couldn't stand the place. 'Too peaceful.'"

"Isn't that pretty risky, staying around the castle?" Marcus asked, beginning to see holes in his own theory.

"Ohhh, absolutely," Serana grinned, showing the points of her fangs. "But my mother's no coward. That is…I don't think we'll actually trip over her there, but it's worth a look."

"They aren't going to let us use the front door, you know," Marcus felt obliged to point out.

"True," Serana agreed, "but I know a way we can get to the courtyard without arousing suspicion."

"Oh?"

"Yes, there's an unused inlet on the northern side of the island that was used by the previous owners to bring supplies into the castle. An old escape tunnel from the castle exits there. I think that's our way in."

It all sounded a bit too cliché to Marcus, but for the moment it was their best option. The problem he faced now, was that he was expected back in Whiterun, in the Underforge, tomorrow. The trip to Volkihar Keep would have to be postponed.

"Alright," he said finally, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I have a few things I need to take care of at home. And unfortunately, I can't take you with me where I have to go next."

"It's alright," Serana said stiffly, and he could have kicked himself. The shields were back up. "I'll wait for you at the Keep."

"No!" he exclaimed, a little more forcefully than he intended, as the floor trembled beneath their feet. He took a deep breath and relaxed, smiling. "What I meant was, I don't want to leave you alone, either. You're in danger if your father's people find you."

"In danger?" she scoffed. "From my father? He's unbalanced, I'll grant you, but—"

"Serana," Marcus said sincerely, coming toward her and putting his hands on her shoulders, "your father was prepared to kill your mother in front of you because she took the Elder Scrolls from him. Now you've done the same thing. You've already admitted he doesn't see you as a daughter anymore. I don't think he's going to give you a pass on this."

Serana looked troubled. He could see the conflict in her orange eyes as she worked her way through her situation.

"What do you suggest, then?" she asked. "I can't stay here, either. The Dawnguard might not be as comfortable around me as you…as you've become."

"I'll take you to my home," he said. "You can stay there until I come back. It should only take a day or two. But this is something I have to do. Not just for myself…" He hesitated, but knew that sharing a confidence with her would help her open up more to him.

"It's for my son," he said finally. "I became a werewolf to save my son, who took the beastblood without my knowledge or permission. He's stuck in wolf form because he's still just a kid. But there's a possible cure, and I need to go after it…for his sake."

Understanding dawned in the vampire girl's eyes. "Of course," she breathed. "Marcus, I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I just thought—" She broke off, not finishing the sentence.

"You thought I didn't want to be around you, or help you anymore," he nodded. "Far from it. We started this together, and we're going to finish it together. Come on, let's head back to Whiterun."

Unexpectedly, Serana threw her arms around his waist and hugged him. "I wish you'd been my father," her muffled voice said against his chest, and Marcus smiled, patting her on the back. They had just turned a corner, and he sincerely hoped this might lead to Serana possibly wanting to cure herself of her vampirism.

But she _was_ still a vampire, he knew, and that meant she needed to feed soon, or she might turn on him or someone else when the hunger became too great to ignore.

"Come on," he told her. "Let's go get you something to eat."

"Are you kidding?" she blinked in surprise. "I'm a vampire, remember?"

"Yes," he answered evenly. "And I happen to know a place where brigands and bandits like to congregate. I keep taking them out, and they keep coming back. I haven't been there in a while, so I think it's time to do a little house-cleaning. Feel like helping?"

"I'm really good at sweeping," Serana grinned, showing the points of her teeth again. This time, he didn't mind.

* * *

 _[Author's Note: Next up, Marcus and the Circle travel to Ysgramor's Tomb, looking for a cure. But will it be in the best interests of all concerned for Marcus to cure himself? And meanwhile, down in Cyrodiil, we find out what has happened to Tamsyn, now a "guest" of the Thalmor. Thanks for reading!]_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

True to his word, the Grey Fox had gotten Cicero and Argis into the Arcane University grounds through tunnels that ran under the wall, each of them guided by the light of a foot-long stick that had a magelight permanently enchanted to the end of it. The tunnels stank, and noxious fumes were everywhere, forcing them to cover their mouths and noses and breathe lightly, and it was why the Guildmaster cautioned them that open flames were not a good idea here. The tunnels eventually led to a shaft that led up to a grate hidden behind a clump of bushes. They were just in time to see Tamsyn being removed from the Chironasium by an escort of a half-dozen Altmer guards and no less than three Thalmor Justiciars, including the one in the leather mask.

Cicero was all for leaping forward right then and there, but Argis and the Grey Fox held him back.

"You can't help her right now," the Guildmaster told the Imperial jester. "You'll only get yourself imprisoned or killed, neither of which will help your Arch-Mage. Let's watch to see where they're taking her."

Where they took her was to the central Watchtower. The Grey Fox smiled and motioned to the other two men.

"Quickly! I can get us in there between the walls."

"Between the walls?" Argis asked, following him and Cicero back into the sewer tunnel.

"Yes," said the Guildmaster. "That central watchtower has an unused stairway that was sealed off a century ago, but my predecessor thought it might be useful as an observation point. If we hurry, we may be able to see what they're up to."

"They're going to hurt dear Tamsyn!" Cicero fretted. "We need to get in there and rescue her!"

"They aren't going to do anything immediately, Cicero," the Grey Fox assured him. "But we can't just go barging in there. It's too risky for both her and us. That _is_ a guard's tower, after all."

Cicero subsided, but it was clear he was not happy, and Argis couldn't blame him. What he had feared would happen was exactly what _had_ happen, and now Lady Tamsyn was a prisoner of the Thalmor. He shuddered to think of what his Thane would have to say about this. They were supposed to have protected her.

The Grey Fox led them swiftly down a short tunnel and up a long shaft with iron rungs set in the stones. A hatch at the top of the shaft opened into a dark, dusty, cobweb-filled landing with stairs that curved up and to the left.

"We must be quiet here," the Grey Fox warned them in a low voice. "These stone walls are thick, but at strategic places along the interior curve are listening holes. If we make too much noise, we'll be heard, and it won't take the Thalmor long to figure out we're not skeevers."

The two men nodded and proceeded cautiously up the stairs, with the Breton Guildmaster leading the way. He paused every so often to press his ear against a hole in the wall, or to look through one. Occasionally, a beam of light from the room on the other side would shine through.

Suddenly he stopped and held up his hand, hiding his magelight stick in his cloak, motioning the other two to do the same with theirs. From the other side of the wall they heard voices. The Breton thief motioned them to observe through the peek-holes into the room below.

"That went much better than I'd hoped," came the muffled voice of Justiciar Telperion. "Your service this night will not be forgotten, Chancellor."

She was standing next to Tamsyn's rigid, unconscious form, still being carried by four Altmer guards. Facing her was Imperial Chancellor Lorena Polus. There was no sign of the other two Justiciars or guards.

"I'm glad you think so, Justiciar," Chancellor Lorena said. "I hope you learn whatever it is you think the Arch-Mage is hiding. And speaking of Arch-Mages, about my concerns regarding Vendrassi?"

"I'm sure you're aware he does not hold the title of Arch-Mage," the Justiciar said stiffly. There was an edge of warning in her voice, but the politician clearly ignored it.

"I'm well aware of that," the Imperial woman said in a surprisingly hard tone. "And you know very well to what I am referring. How long before you remove him and give me the position that rightfully belongs to me?"

"Your ambition does you credit, Chancellor," the Thalmor said smoothly, "but do not think you can dictate to me as easily as you can the First Emissary. I serve Gwaiden, but I am not his puppet. Remember that."

Chancellor Lorena suddenly put her hands to her head, as if struck with an instant migraine. "You dare!" she whispered, staggering.

"Remember your place, Chancellor," the Justiciar warned. "You are not the only playing piece I have on the board – and you are not indispensable."

Alarmed, and not afraid to show it, Chancellor Lorena nodded her head. "Forgive me, Justiciar," she begged. "I am an old woman, and I would like to reclaim my great-grandfather's position before I die. I am just concerned about being able to do it in the time I have left."

"You will receive your reward when I have what I want," Justiciar Telperion said coolly. "Leave us now."

Not waiting to be told twice, Chancellor Lorena left the room, and the three men behind the wall heard her retreating footsteps.

"Fool!" the Thalmor muttered. To the four guards she said, "Take the Arch-Mage through the portal to the interrogation chamber. I will join you there shortly."

"Yes, Justiciar!" one of them said, and together, the four guards moved across the line of vision available to the three hidden men. A warping sound was heard and the Justiciar was alone. She walked to the door and paused a moment, with her hand on the latch. She stiffened suddenly and stared around the room as if listening...or searching.

The three men behind the wall held their breath and quietly drew back. After a moment the Justiciar shrugged. "I've been at this game too long," she said softly to herself. "I'm starting to get as paranoid as Gwaiden."

There was the sound of a door opening and closing, and the men breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"They took her through a portal!" Cicero hissed.

"Yes," the Grey Fox said, troubled. "I had no idea one even still existed. We'd better get down there."

"How?" Argis demanded. "We're inside the wall, remember?"

"Now, you don't think my predecessor would have set this up without a way in, do you?" the Guildmaster smirked. "We haven't got much time before that Justiciar comes back. Let's get down there and see where that portal leads."

"Is that wise?" Argis asked nervously. Magic in general made him uneasy; elven magic even more so.

"We must, dear Argis!" Cicero insisted. "We cannot help sweet Tamsyn if we are here and she is…there…wherever 'there' is."

"Cicero is right," the Grey Fox concurred. "Come on. The door is just up here."

A cleverly-hidden latch opened up a section of the wall into what appeared to be a store room. Crates and barrels were neatly stacked around the room, as well as armor and weapons, none of which were better than what they had. Argis had to shoulder the door open, since someone had stacked a few crates in the way. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but they all cringed at the loud, scraping sound.

"I'm going to have to talk to someone about refitting that door so it opens into this passage, and not the room," the Breton thief grumbled.

He listened at the door carefully before opening it just a crack to peer into the corridor beyond. Seeing no one, he motioned to the two men to follow him as silently and as closely as they could. They found a staircase leading down to the floor they had been on behind the wall. They heard voices drifting up from somewhere below and Argis thought one of them sounded like the Justiciar.

"Have you heard from the men I sent to the King and Queen?" she demanded.

"No, Justiciar," said a man's voice. He sounded Imperial, not Altmer.

"Very well," the Thalmor voice said. "I'll look into it myself. I will return shortly. No one goes into that room, understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," two voices answered. A door clanged, and they heard the two guards talking.

"What do you think is going on?" one asked.

"I have no idea, and if you're smart, you won't ask questions," said the other. "That woman scares the piss out of me. I've heard she can turn your brains to jelly."

"Ugh!" said the first one, with a shudder in his voice. "Do you think we should stand watch by the door up there?"

"What for?" the second one replied. "We're the only ones here right now. I'm not going in there; you're not going in there. We'll stay right here and that way we'll stay out of trouble."

There was a moment's pause, then the first one spoke again. "But aren't you even curious—"

"No!" the second one said firmly. "And unless you want to have your brains turned to jelly, you'll forget all about it. Come on, I've got my toss-stones with me. We could get a game or two in before she gets back."

"What if she catches us?"

"We've got a clear view of the grounds from here," the second one assured him. "We'll see her long before she walks in. Now come on. I'm feeling lucky tonight."

There followed the sounds of toss-stones rattling together and wagers being made, which quickly escalated into exclamations of pleasure and dismay.

The Grey Fox tapped Argis on the arm and motioned him to follow. Cicero was already ahead, near the forbidden door.

It was only the matter of a moment before the Guildmaster had the door open and they slipped inside, crouching just in case anyone was coming back through the portal. It lay at the far end of the room, casting a reddish-purple light against the wall behind it. Slightly raised from the level of the floor, it was inscribed with arcane symbols around its edge as well as on its face.

"How does it work?" Cicero asked in a hushed voice. "Does one stand on it and cast a spell?"

"Not that I've read," the Grey Fox said, shaking his head. "As far as I know, they're set to take you to a specific location. All you have to do is stand on it."

"Then let's go!" Cicero exclaimed, moving forward, only to be hauled back by Argis.

"Wait!" the big Nord said. "We don't know where it leads. We could come out right in the middle of a whole pack of Thalmor."

"Then Cicero will chop them into little, tiny pieces!" the jester promised, drawing Stabby and Pokey.

"That won't help the Arch-Mage at all," the Grey Fox scowled behind his mask. "You'd be cut down before you could get to her. Have you got any invisibility potions?" he asked.

Both men from Skyrim shook their heads.

"Are you any good at sneaking?"

"Well….Cicero is," the jester admitted.

"I'm not," Argis frowned.

"Then it might be wise to let someone go first who's a master at not being seen," the Guildmaster said reasonably. "Stay here, keep listening for that Justiciar to come back and try to stay out of sight. I'll be back as quickly as I can."

He took a potion from his belt and prepared to drink it as soon as he went through the portal. He gave them a mock-salute, stepped onto the platform in a crouch, and vanished from view.

"Why didn't he drink it first?" Argis asked.

"Because the act of doing anything while invisible very often makes one visible again, in spite of a potion," Cicero explained.

Argis blew out a frustrated breath. "So what do we do now?"

"We wait, dear boy," his lover said. "We wait."

The stomach-lurching trip took all of two or three heartbeats, and the Guildmaster found himself in a large chamber filled with Thalmor. No one noticed him as he swiftly downed his potion of invisibility and casually made his way around the room.

No one felt the breeze in his wake or saw any additional shadows cast by torchlight on the ground. He was Nocturnal's Agent, and his domain was Stealth. Every Province in Tamriel had Nightingales, with Skyrim's Trinity having been restored not so long ago, and he, Dante Greyshadow, was Cyrodiil's best.

He tried not to think about his past very much. That he had been born poor and raised in poverty was not something that helped him now. His mother had died giving him life, and he had been raised by the woman who had been his wet-nurse. His father was Lord Edwyn Greyshadow, who never acknowledged his bastard son, but at least provided the bare necessities, even obtaining a position for him as a court page when he came of age. It was there that Dante learned everything he knew about political intrigue. It was where he learned to play the game and found he liked it. Then one day an assassin's blade took his father's legitimate heirs from him. Then and only then had Lord Edwyn given his bastard son his last name and acknowledged his birthright, thereby painting a bright red target on Dante's back.

His father's own suspicious death shortly afterwards galvanized him into making a hasty, secretive departure from High Rock for reasons of his health – it wasn't healthy for him to remain there any longer. The family holdings were stolen – by the same family that had engineered his father's death, he was certain – and Dante counted himself lucky escaping with his life, using an alias to throw off any pursuit.

He had been just twenty when he arrived in the Imperial City in Cyrodiil after stowing away aboard a merchant vessel. Had he been caught he might have been keel-hauled, but fortune smiled on him and he made the trip safely. But he was destitute, with no food, no possessions, not a septim to his name, and no skills but a silver tongue and a talent for not getting caught. He fell in quickly with the thieves' guild and worked his way through the ranks, aiming for the top and wanting better than he had.

Now, a dozen years later, he was Guildmaster, Nightingale and living a double life as a respected businessman. Life was good, and Dante intended to keep it that way.

He looked around the chamber and saw that it was an Ayleid ruin. That stood to reason. The Dominion very often imagined themselves as the second coming of the Heartland High Elves who disappeared centuries ago. Soft white light illuminated the stone chamber from a gigantic metal chandelier holding one huge glowing white stone, and Dante felt the familiar tingle of greed. He only had ordinary torches lighting his headquarters, because Varla stones were prohibitively expensive and impossible to find.

The center of the room was dominated by a large, stone pillar, nested inside an inverted well that hung down from the ceiling above. Stone benches lined the walls, and if these were original, he couldn't say. His experiences with Ayleid ruins had been to stay well away from them. Clearly the Dominion felt no such reluctance, and Dante realized that if each of the Ayleid ruins around Cyrodiil was a potential base for Thalmor operations, than the Dominion was far more of a threat than anyone realized.

But he needed to focus. Somewhere in this ruin was the Arch-Mage, and in order to effect a rescue, he needed to know exactly which Ayleid ruin the Thalmor were using as a headquarters. There were over fifty scattered across Cyrodiil, and he didn't think they had time to go turning over fifty stones to look beneath them. In addition, unless one knew exactly where to go inside, one could wander for hours and get lost in these ancient elven ruins.

His time was running out, he knew. The potion would soon wear off, and then he would have to depend on either his own most excellent ability to move without being seen, or call upon Nocturnal's powers to hide him. He would rather not use that gift just yet; it was always a court of last resort.

Moving silently to a large table near the center of the room, where several Altmer were standing and talking, Dante peered around them to see a large map of Tamriel spread over the table, held down by four Varla stones. It was quite possibly the largest map he'd ever seen, and once more, his fingers itched.

"Is she really the Arch-Mage?" one of the females asked. "I thought she was a lot taller. The stories made her sound ten feet tall."

"She's a Breton," one of the males sniffed. "They don't get very big."

"Do you think it's true what they say about her College up at Winterhold?" a third Altmer asked.

"I have no idea," said a fourth Altmer, a Justiciar, "but I wouldn't want to be Illarion right now. His reports have been…less than satisfactory."

"He can't find what isn't there," the first female shot back. "If there _are_ any powerful artifacts up there, the Arch-Mage is keeping them well hidden."

Dante spared a glance at the map again, trying to determine where this particular Ayleid ruin was. There was nothing on the map that seemed to indicate its position.

"Sir," said a new voice, as another guard came up, and Dante shrank further into the shadows, though he knew they couldn't see him. "We're hearing reports of unrest in Anvil, Bravil and Skingrad."

"Well?" demanded the Justiciar. "What of it? Send word to put the rabble down, as per our standard operating procedure."

"That's the problem, sir," said the guard hesitantly. "We can't find the perpetrators. They've been attacking our headquarters in each of those cities, but then they just…disappear. We don't know where they're going. I have reports of at least a dozen of our operatives dead already, and the figure keeps mounting."

Dante smirked to himself. Directive 24 was proceeding nicely.

"Oh, for Divine's sake," the Justiciar snorted. "Must I handle everything? You three, come with me. Let's find out what's going on out there."

The group left the table and Dante found himself alone; the nearest Altmer was at the far end of the room with the large central pillar between them.

Quickly he sifted through the charts and maps on the table to see what was there before rolling them all up and stuffing them inside his tunic. He stuffed the Varla stones into his pack, too, just because. Invoking Nocturnal's gift to be on the safe side, he made his way swiftly back to the portal and stepped onto the platform, finding himself back in the Watchtower.

"Thank the gods!" Argis breathed when he saw the Guildmaster.

"There, you see, Argis?" Cicero chirped happily. "I told you he wouldn't leave us hanging here!"

"We need to leave now, gentlemen," the Grey Fox said quietly. "Back the way we came. When we get back to the Guild, I'll fill you in."

"Did you find Lady Tamsyn?" Argis asked, worried.

"No," the Guildmaster admitted. "But I found a few things that I think will lead us to her. Let's go before that Justiciar returns."

An hour later found them back in the Guildmaster's private study. This time, Minnow was present, as well as a third guild member whom the Grey Fox introduced as Reydin Glane; he was a Bosmer, and in addition to the sword at his side he carried a bow across his back.

"Now," the Grey Fox said smugly, as he spread the maps out on his desk. "Let's just see what we can learn here."

"Where did you get these, boss?" Reydin asked, curious.

"It was a gift from the Thalmor," the Guildmaster smirked. "They just aren't aware of it. They're using an Ayleid ruin as a base of operations. The problem is I don't know which one."

"Is it one of the ones near the city?" Minnow asked.

The Grey Fox gave her a look.

"Oh, sorry," she apologized. "You did say you didn't know which one."

Quickly, the Grey Fox filled them all in on what he'd learned at the Thalmor base. That the Arch-Mage was being held there was clear. It was also apparent that whatever Directive 24 was, it was also having an effect on the Dominion. They turned their attention to the maps he'd brought back with him.

"This diagram here looks like a floor plan," Argis mused, picking one up.

Reydin looked over his shoulder. "I think you're right," he said. "Many of those old ruins have double-backs and multiple levels that overlook other areas."

"Do you think this diagram shows where they're keeping the Arch-Mage?" Cicero asked.

"It's possible," the Grey Fox shrugged. "I know the chamber I came into was vast, and had large central pillar in the middle of it."

"That could describe any Ayleid ruin, though," Reydin put in. "We'll need something more definite to go on."

"That's what I'm hoping these other charts will show us," said the Grey Fox. "Reydin, I want you to go through everything here and let me know what you learn. Minnow, send word to our affiliates in Bruma, Cheydinhal and Chorral. Oh, and don't forget Leyawiin. Jasper's always complaining he's being left out of the important stuff. Now's his time to prove he can handle it."

"Directive 24?" she grinned.

"You've got it," the Breton thief smirked. "Let's keep them busy; too busy to pay attention to our real goal."

"I'm pretty good with maps and diagrams," Argis offered. "Maybe between the two of us, Reydin and I can figure things out."

"You don't know Cyrodiil, though," the Grey Fox pointed out.

"But Cicero does!" the little jester said smugly. "Besides, we want to be where the information comes in. If the Grey Fox will allow us to stay here, we will help in any way we can to rescue the Arch-Mage."

The Guildmaster looked at both the Nord and the Imperial. "Good enough," he said finally. "Reydin, when you get a chance, find a couple bunks for them down here. It's too dangerous for them to return to the inn anyway; the Thalmor will surely be watching for them."

"What will you be doing, boss?" Minnow asked.

"I need to put in an appearance upstairs as the genial, but unremarkable businessman," the Grey Fox replied.

"How will that help?" the girl asked.

Her boss gave her an unfathomable look. "It's how I find out what's going on."

* * *

"Are we awake now?" a low, pleasant voice hummed.

Tamsyn tried very hard to open her eyes, but it felt like someone had sewn them shut. Her mouth wasn't cooperating, either. The Sahara couldn't have been drier.

"Forgive me for drugging you," the voice continued, "but it was necessary. No one outside my…organization…is to know of the location of the facilities."

She knew that voice. It was the Thalmor Justiciar, Sylfaen Telperion. She remembered little after the paralyzation spell hit her, except her defiance, and the betrayal of Chancellor Lorena. There would be a score to settle there, for certain; if she could only get up and move. But her muscles weren't responding any better than her eyes or mouth. At least she was still breathing, so she had that going for her.

"Oh, do struggle, by all means," Justiciar Telperion purred. "It makes everything so much more…satisfying. Are you quite comfortable? No? Good. I strive for perfection, after all." The smugness in the woman's voice irritated Tamsyn no end, and while she couldn't feel her extremities, it was clear they were responding, if only remotely.

She was cold, too, and realized at once she had been stripped naked. Even her wedding ring, and the Ring of Flying had been taken from her. The last one worried her more than the loss of the wedding band. If the Thalmor disenchanted it, they would learn how to make any number of them. Her only hope was the second charm she had laid upon the plain silver band: the aura of non-enchantment. No one looking at it casually would believe it to be anything other than a plain, unremarkable silver ring.

"Now, once you have recovered enough from the drug, we can begin the…interview," Justiciar Telperion said. "And please understand that there are Observers present, so try to make your answers as truthful as possible. Ordinarily that's not a problem. I generally always know when someone is lying to me, but you, Arch-Mage," the Justiciar paused, almost in admiration. "There is something about you I have not been able to figure out."

With an almost super-human effort, Tamsyn managed to croak out, "Whaaat?"

"Ah! You see?" the Justiciar said delightedly. "That's what I'm talking about. It took far more of our little sedative to subdue you than it normally would for a Breton. But you are already recovering from what would have been a lethal dose to someone else of your race. That's very impressive, don't you think?"

The Thalmor woman didn't wait for an answer, but continued on, as if explaining to the Observers Tamsyn couldn't see.

"In addition, I must say I'm very impressed with your ability to keep me out of your mind, even unconscious," she continued conversationally. "So, what I'm wondering is, what is it about the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold that makes her so special? I don't suppose you'd let me in on your little secret, hmm?"

So her mind-shield still worked even when she wasn't conscious? That was good to know, and Tamsyn found herself relaxing just a bit. She didn't dignify the Justiciar's question with a response, however, and the Thalmor tsked.

"No, I thought not. Still, I think I can safely say that you _will_ tell me….eventually. Everyone does. It all depends on just how much you can take before you do."

"When my husband finds out what you've done," Tamsyn whispered, wishing it sounded more defiant, "he's going to open up the biggest can of whoop-ass you've ever seen."

"Well, I've never heard that particular term before," Justiciar Telperion mused. "I'm going to assume it has something to do with retaliation. But it doesn't matter. We'll be waiting for him. You see, we owe him for what he did at the Embassy."

"You can't prove he had anything to do with that," Tamsyn said weakly. She wondered frantically _which_ particular trip to the Embassy was being referenced here. Denying it outright would have been pointless. The Dominion was already convinced her husband was behind it.

"No?" the Thalmor asked, blue eyes glinting behind her finely-tooled leather mask. "My sources say differently. There was a certain Khajiit housekeeper who remembers a man matching your husband's description coming through her kitchen on the night of the Embassy ball," the Justiciar said. "In addition, we found his name on the guest list, and no one is certain how it got there. That is, until we caught up with a former Bosmer employee whose background _should_ have been looked into further. Thankfully, that little oversight has been…remedied, and the people responsible for the slip-up have been…disciplined."

Involuntarily, Tamsyn shuddered. She felt sorry for Malborn; less so for the Khajiit housekeeper.

"There was also the little matter of the death of our Emissary, Ambassador Elenwen," Justiciar Telperion continued.

"The Khajiit did that, not Marcus," Tamsyn protested, struggling again against her restraints.

"Oh, I know," the Thalmor purred, "but we are already spreading word through the Empire that it was at his instigation. Nothing tarnishes a sterling reputation like some good, old-fashioned slander, don't you think?" Her voice was full of amusement. "I wonder what your husband's reaction will be when he realizes that every man's hand will soon turn against him?"

"It won't work," Tamsyn insisted. "You Thalmor aren't as popular as you think you are. Half the people in the Empire would rather see you all go to Oblivion. Marcus is a hero, especially to the people of Skyrim. They won't believe you."

"I disagree," Justiciar Telperion countered. "I find character assassination often to be more effective than actually outright killing someone. Now, I'm rather pressed for time, so let's get right to business, shall we?"

Tamsyn tensed herself, but it didn't help ease the searing pain that lanced through her at the mental assault the Justiciar launched at her. She tried to block as much as she could, but just when she thought she had guarded against one form of mental torture, the Thalmor threw another at her; and another, and another. She felt her mind grow weary from the barrage and knew her defenses were weakening. Still, she had managed, even unconscious, to keep the Justiciar out of her mind, so she persevered.

"You _will_ submit to me," the Thalmor woman gritted out, probing for weaknesses.

Tamsyn didn't waste energy responding. It was everything she could do to keep her own walls up. Her lessons with the Auger of Dunlaine had been time well spent, but there appeared to be some innate ability inherited from her father. She pushed back and was surprised and pleased to find the Justiciar wasn't as invincible as she would have liked Tamsyn to believe. She found a chink in the elf's mental armor and pressed her advantage, seeking to turn the tables against her adversary. The Thalmor shuddered and pushed back, but lost any advance she might have made against the Arch-Mage.

Eventually, Justiciar Telperion gave it up. Her breathing was labored, and Tamsyn could imagine it must be stifling behind that mask. Why wouldn't she remove it? Was she horribly disfigured, like Darth Vader, or did she simply feel she looked more threatening with a mask? The Dragon Priests used to wear them; Tamsyn even had a few of them. They had been enchanted to give the favored of Alduin additional powers. Did the Justiciar's mask make her more powerful as an interrogator?

"We will continue this another time, Arch-Mage, rest assured," the elf snarled, breathing heavily. "I _will_ find out what secrets you're keeping from me." With that she turned on her heel, black and gold robes swirling around her, and left the chamber, leaving the Breton girl still strapped to the table.

Tamsyn felt violated. What she had endured was nothing less than psychic rape, and she hated the entire Dominion more than ever. If the Justiciar hadn't been an elf, and so much older, Tamsyn felt she would have had a lot less trouble fending off this form of attack.

And there was the clue, she realized. It wasn't just the fact that her torturer was an elf; she was old… _very_ old. Tamsyn had intuitively learned that much from her counter-attack. The Thalmor's age lent power to her attacks. How long did elves live? The questions that spun in her mind would have to wait for another time. For now, she needed to concentrate on conserving her strength. Tamsyn closed her eyes and forced herself to remain emotionless, though inside she wanted to cry. If she was still being observed, she refused to give them the satisfaction of thinking they had broken her. Her one hope of escape lay in the fact that Argis and Cicero would expect her to return to the inn. When she didn't, she knew they would comb Oblivion to find her.

She must have fallen asleep, because she was being jostled awake.

"No sleep for you," a female Altmer guard sneered. Tamsyn turned her head as far as she could to see two other guards by the only door to the chamber. They were male, and stared at her naked form with expressions of disgust on their faces.

So this was another form of torture, was it? Sleep-deprivation had broken many prisoners. If the Thalmor hoped to weaken her by keeping her awake, they were on the right track. Tamsyn loved sleep. To be denied it only resulted in making her cranky, in controlled situations. But she had never been captured and tortured before; she had no idea how long she could go without sleep before her mental barriers might weaken. No doubt that was exactly what the Justiciar was counting on.

She didn't respond to the guard, and turned her head away from the males. Humiliation was another way of breaking her, and it might have worked if she had been born and raised in this world, or ashamed of her body – but she wasn't. She had a damn good body now, and she knew it. Let them gawk and make rude comments. The problem was theirs, not hers.

It was time to try a trick she had learned from the Auger. Fixing her gaze on a point of the ceiling overhead, Tamsyn kept her eyes open but let her mind drift into a meditative state. It wasn't as restful as actual sleep, but if she could snatch a few minutes here and there, she might be able to keep her defenses up. Her breathing became slower, and even her eyelids blinked less often.

She wondered what time it was – and what day. There was no telling how long she had been unconscious. Were Cicero and Argis missing her by now? What could they do? The city guard would be no help; Chancellor Lorena had been very devious, insisting that she turn herself invisible. The guards could honestly say they never saw her enter the University.

Tamsyn heard her cell door open and braced herself.

"What are these two doing here?" she heard Justiciar Telperion demand.

"First Emissary's orders, Justiciar," the female guard replied. "He insisted."

"They serve no purpose," the Justiciar said dismissively. "Leave us," she ordered the two males.

They looked at each other and then back at her. "But First Emmisary Gwaiden insisted—" one began, then recoiled as something invisible seemed to strike him.

"I conduct the interrogations in my own way, Rigel," the Justiciar intoned. "Gwaiden knows this. It's bad enough I must submit to having Observers present during questioning. I will not have non-essential personnel loitering about. Or perhaps you wish to take part in the proceedings?" There was a deadly edge to her voice, and even from her position, Tamsyn heard Rigel swallow hard.

"N-no, Justiciar," he stammered. "We were just leaving." He tapped his companion's arm and the two men did a smart about-face and left the cell.

There was silence for several heartbeats before Justiciar Telperion spoke again. "Well, Oresta?"

"M-ma'am?" the female guard stuttered.

"The door," the Thalmor said.

"D-door?" the woman echoed, confused. "Wh-what about it?"

"You're on the wrong side of it," the Justiciar said meaningfully.

"Uh…yes ma'am," Oresta agreed hastily, and Tamsyn heard her footsteps beating a hasty retreat before the door closed.

Tamsyn braced herself as the torment began once more.

* * *

Marcus and Sinding arrived back in Whiterun in the middle of the night. The Dragonborn felt it would be safer that way, in case Sinding had a relapse. They entered the Underforge from the hidden exit under the wall, and met with the Circle, already gathered. Vilkas was holding Wuuthrad, and he handed it to Marcus as he frowned at Sinding.

"This is who you've brought?" he demanded. "Are you sure he can be trusted?" Vilkas still wasn't comfortable bringing an outsider to Ysgramor's Tomb, to him a sacred place. But the Dragonborn had insisted.

"I'll vouch for him," Marcus said firmly. "This is Sinding, the one I told you about."

"You sure you want to do this?" Farkas asked the red-haired Nord, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm sure," Sinding replied quietly. "And I thank you for the opportunity. It's the first hope I've had in a long time that I could be free of this curse."

Aela looked like she wanted to argue the finer points of blessings versus curses, but sensing she was in a minority, and seeing Alesan huddled next to his father, she wisely kept her thoughts to herself.

"Have you brought the witches' heads, Farkas?" Marcus asked him now.

"Yeah," the shaggy-haired twin nodded, hefting the canvas bag. "Got 'em right here. Caught Njada trying to peek into it the other day, though."

"There's only a half dozen heads, Dragonborn," Vilkas said as Marcus took the sack. "If we're successful, and this works, we'll be one short."

"You can keep your cure," Aela said firmly. "I'm happy the way I am."

"Then we'll have enough," Marcus said. "Let's go. It's a long way to Ysgramor's Tomb."

"Not if we run, it isn't," Aela grinned wolfishly.

In the end, that seemed to be the best option. Outside the city walls they each reverted to wolf-form, except for Alesan, who already was. Sinding seemed to have no trouble this time.

"It's a lot easier for me to go from human to wolf than it is for me to change back," he explained.

By some unspoken agreement, they all seemed to acknowledge Marcus as the pack leader. The bag of witches' heads had disappeared, along with Wuuthrad and his other gear, but he sensed they were still there, the powerful magic still clinging to them. He howled and led the way down the east road, crossing the bridge and heading along the bluffs that lined the White River on the south side. They passed Valtheim Keep at a dead run to keep the soldiers from targeting them, but even so, some of the arrows came too close for comfort.

To avoid the same complication at Fort Amol, they cut overland near Cradlecrush Rock. The giant there was a solitary, with no mammoth companion, but even then objected to the werewolves invading his territory. Sadly, he didn't stand a chance against the six of them. Even Alesan was able to slip behind the humongous humanoid and hamstring him. He went down, then, and it was a matter of moments to finish him off.

As they approached Windhelm, Marcus veered west, crossing the River Yorgrim near Anga's Mill. He was grateful it was still dark, and all the inhabitants were asleep. He shuddered inwardly to think of what could happen if a pack of werewolves came through during the day.

A mile or two past the opened dragon mound the road forked, leading west to eventually end up in Dawnstar, and northeast past Fort Kastav before heading north up to Winterhold. They were about halfway there, and it was still a couple of hours before daylight. Alesan, however, was lagging behind. The juvenile wasn't used to running this long as a werewolf. For a human boy, it would have been impossible at the pace they had set. Sinding, too, was looking winded. Marcus decided to find a place they could rest before pushing on.

The Yorgrim Overlook was the remnants of a Nordic ruin that had completely collapsed. Marcus had been through here on his travels related to his cross-training of Imperials and Stormcloaks in Blackreach, and had long since cleaned it out – not that there was much here. But it provided some shelter from the gusting wind as they relaxed and caught their breath. They stayed in wolf-form to remain alert to any traffic on the road, or threat coming through the passes.

"You're all soft," Aela snorted. "I could keep going for hours yet."

"But Alesan can't," Vilkas shot back, and Marcus was glad he'd been the one to say it.

"I suppose you're right," Aela said, lowering her flame-kissed head. "I'm sorry, whelp," she said to the youngster. "I wasn't thinking."

Alesan licked her muzzle, having long since forgiven her for her part in his current condition. He was going to be cured, that was all he cared about right now.

They rested for only a quarter hour before moving on. Marcus wanted to get past Fort Kastav while it was still dark, but morning wasn't far away.

Luck was on their side, and the Stormcloak sentries on duty never saw them gliding single file up the road in the pre-dawn darkness. As they approached Journey's Nook and Whistling Cave, however, Sinding suddenly reverted back to human form.

"I'm sorry," he gasped as the cold hit him. "I couldn't stay wolf any longer. I can't control it."

"That's alright," said Marcus as he allowed himself to change back. "It just means our pace will be slower, but it can't be helped. I'm more concerned about sneaking past Winterhold in broad daylight with Alesan. He can't change back."

"We could cut wide, to the east," Vilkas suggested. "There's the remnants of a road that leads under the bridge to the College itself. It goes down the mountainside to the shore. We could come at it through the ruined part of town."

"That's an idea," Marcus agreed. "And I remember that road. But we can't all go. That many of us would be just as noticeable as walking down the main street."

"I'll take the boy," Sinding offered. "If we get accosted by the town guards, we'll make a run for it. I promise we won't fight them."

"Thanks," Marcus said sincerely. "Alesan, go with him. We'll be the decoys, and keep their attention focused on us while you two get around to the bridge. Wait for us. We shouldn't be long, but we want to act like mercenaries looking for work."

Their plan worked beautifully. Sinding and Alesan kept to the east side of town, working their way north, while Marcus and the others made a bit of noise like drunken sell-swords to attract the guards and keep them focused on the Circle rather than the man and the werewolf cub moving furtively through the bushes.

Half an hour later found the group rejoined down the north path out of sight of prying eyes.

"It's not far from here, now," Vilkas said. "You can see the island from here." He pointed, and Marcus could see it more clearly from this vantage point than he had from a distance two years ago with Tamsyn at the top of Skytemple Ruins.

" _There's a Word Wall with part of the Animal Allegiance Shout up near the peak that you can get to by climbing the rocks,"_ she had told him _. "You don't have to go through the Tomb itself. And we couldn't, even if we wanted to, because we don't have Wuuthrad."_

Well, now they had Wuuthrad. Eorlund had brought it down to the Underforge shortly before he had arrived with Sinding, and Vilkas had insisted he be the one to carry it; now it was slung on his back. It was odd; he hadn't carried that much weight back there since he had first come to Skyrim and was figuring out which weapon type and style of fighting he preferred. Even now, though he had made a point of training with all kinds of weapons, he knew he wasn't as good with a greataxe as he was with his preferred dual-weapon style. Alduin's Bane and Dragonbane were both strapped to his hips. He had given Sinding a set of leather armor and an elven sword he had picked up from somewhere and had hung onto; the troubled Nord insisted he preferred lighter armor and weapons. "And I'm not very good with those, either," he admitted. Marcus assured him that if this venture of theirs was successful, that Sinding was more than welcome to stay with the Companions and get some training.

"Thank you, Marcus," Sinding said sincerely. "That means a lot to me."

The swim across to the island was frigid, and Marcus almost wished he'd gone wolf to withstand the cold; Alesan said it wasn't that bad and lolled his tongue out – the wolf's way of laughing – at his father's reluctance to get wet. Then they trekked around to the north side where the entrance to the tomb was, with Vilkas leading the way.

The first chamber was not large, but was dominated by a statue of Ysgramor, set on a raised stone pedestal. Offerings of weapons and armor lay at his feet, as though from warriors who hoped to gain his blessing in their endeavors. Marcus wondered if Ysgramor had that kind of power, now that he was in Sovngarde, or if he even heard the prayers of the supplicants still here in Nirn. He preferred to think the Hero of old did listen, and perhaps was even able to help those who prayed to him.

Marcus noticed immediately upon entering the Tomb that the presence of Hircine – always a constant weight in his mind – was gone. He mentioned it to the others. Only Aela seemed unhappy about it.

"This is the resting place of Ysgramor," Vilkas said, nodding, "and his most trusted generals. Hircine has no influence here. Still, you should be cautious."

"What do you mean?" Marcus demanded, curious. He had picked up immediately on Vilkas' use of the word 'you.'

"The original Companions," Vilkas went on. "Their finest warriors rest with Ysgramor. You'll have to prove yourselves to them. It's not that you're intruding. I'd wager they've actually expected us. They just want to be sure that you're worthy. Be ready for an honorable battle."

"You sound like you're not coming with us," Aela commented. So she had caught it, too.

"I'm not," Vilkas sighed. "Kodlak was right. I let vengeance rule my heart. I regret nothing of what we did at Driftshade, Marcus," he continued, speaking directly to the Dragonborn, "but I can't go any further with my mind fogged or my heart grieved."

"But you've come all this way," Marcus reasoned. "It would be a shame if you couldn't be there at the end."

"I know," the shorter wolf-twin said. "And perhaps in a little while I'll feel worthy enough to continue. For now, I'll remain here and wait for you."

"We're not going to convince him otherwise," Farkas drawled. "I know him too well."

Reluctantly, Marcus realized that Farkas was probably right.

"So, how do we get in, then?" Sinding asked.

Vilkas smiled. "Return Wuuthrad to Ysgramor," he said solemnly.

Ah, of course! Now that he examined the statue more closely, Marcus could see that Ysgramor was holding an axe that wasn't there – Wuuthrad. He unslung the huge battleaxe from his back and climbed on the pedestal.

It took a few tries of wrestling the handle back into the pre-curled shapes of the hands. It was rather like trying to fit the plastic guns into the hands of his son's G.I. Joe's in his former life; the hands didn't bend much, and the stone hands of the ancient Nord hero bent not at all. Still, with a bit of muscle and persuasion, he heard the handle snap into place, and the door behind them lowered down into the floor.

"Don't forget to take Wuuthrad with you," Vilkas reminded him.

"Won't the door close again?" Sinding asked.

"It shouldn't," said the wolf-twin.

So Marcus climbed back up in exasperation and tugged at the axe until it came loose again. The door remained open, and he fitted Wuuthrad back in the holster on his back. It was a symbolic method of accessing the Tomb, he knew, but he would have done it a bit differently. Of course, if it had been easy to do, someone less honorable might have come through long ago to loot the place.

"Go on," Vilkas encouraged them. "Kodlak's waiting for you. Good luck!"

The first indication they had that they weren't alone was a half-dozen ghosts advancing on them from around a large chamber with a pool of water in the center. Though transparent and vaporous, their weapons still hurt. Marcus tried to keep Alesan safe, but the young werewolf leaped forward and attacked the spirits of past Companions almost before Marcus realized they were there. The archers were the worst, standing at the far end of the chamber and pegging them from a distance with arrows that hurt as badly as the ebony ones in Marcus' quiver. He heard Alesan yelp twice, and emotion clouded his judgement. He went wolf and joined his son against the two ghosts who had ganged up on him.

Sinding was struggling against the one he was trying to fight until Farkas stepped in and lent a hand – and a sword. Neither he nor Aela could turn wolf again, having done so just to get here. Eventually, the ghosts were laid to rest and Marcus prowled the perimeter of the tomb, trying to find a way through to their goal, as there was clearly nothing in this chamber that seemed to be where they needed to go. He found a passage blocked by thickly woven spiderwebs, and could smell the acrid, eye-stinging odor wafting through the archway that told him there were frostbite spiders on the other side.

Aela, Sinding and Farkas could smell it too, and the big, burly wolf-twin hung back.

"Uhh…" he stammered.

"Farkas?" Sinding asked. "What's wrong?"

"It's the spiders, isn't it?" Aela asked him sympathetically.

Farkas could only nod. He couldn't bring himself to speak. Aela explained.

"On the mission he took Lars on, they had to fight some rather large frostbite spiders. Lars was poisoned and wasn't much help, and Farkas had to face them down himself – and he's never been fond of them to begin with. After Dustman's Cairn, though, it's been worse. He just freezes up when he sees them. Doesn't help that Athis somehow found out about it and teases him by putting hatchlings in his room."

"It's okay, Farkas," Marcus growled softly, putting a paw on the big Nord's shoulder. "I think the four of us can handle it from here. Go on back and wait with your brother. We'll be okay." _I hope,_ he thought. He had no idea what more they would face in here.

Farkas apologized like a little boy who feels he's let his parents down, and headed back to the first chamber to stay with Vilkas.

Sinding involuntarily went wolf during the fight with the spiders, and remained that way through the rest of the dungeon, which was a help for Marcus and Aela, who were still trying to keep Alesan alive. After another instance where he leaped ahead of his father, Marcus literally barked at him to "get behind me", and surprisingly, Alesan obeyed, his tail between his legs. His alpha had put him in his place.

They fought their way through two more chambers before reaching what Aela told them was the final burial chamber.

"I thought those other rooms were burial chambers," Sinding said.

"They are, but only for the Companions," Aela explained. "This one is for the Harbingers. They're entombed here, if they don't go into the fire."

"I thought Eorlund said they all did," Marcus commented.

"Only since Terfyyg introduced the beastblood into the Circle," Aela said. "Those Harbingers who became werewolves were not welcomed into Sovngarde, and weren't laid to rest here."

"Then how do we save Kodlak's soul?" Marcus asked, concerned. He hoped they hadn't come all this way for nothing.

"If we're lucky, his spirit will still be here," she shrugged.

 _And if we're not, we're screwed,_ Marcus thought bitterly. _It's as simple as that._

Aela pulled the chain next to the sealed door, and a rush of bad air _whooshed_ out. Clearly, the tomb had been closed up for a long time.

As they entered, Marcus noticed the walls flanked with sarcophagi stacked on their ends in row after row around the room. The ceiling vaulted overhead, dimming in the darkness. Iconic, already-lit braziers illuminated the chamber, casting a yellowish light on its features, and Marcus wondered once more who went around replenishing those things. They had been in nearly every barrow he'd been through.

In the center of the vast room was a pedestal upon which another brazier burned, but this one glowed with a peaceful, welcoming blue-white light. Standing next to it, warming his hands, was a figure familiar to at least three of the living present.

"By the Blood!" Aela murmured. "The Flame of the Harbinger. And there's Kodlak's spirit!"

Marcus immediately reverted back to human form, to speak to the man who would have made him his successor.

" _Greetings, Dragonborn!"_ the spirit said warmly, seeing him approach. _"Glad I am to see you have come. And you have brought your son with you, too. That is good."_

"I can't believe you're actually here, Kodlak!" Marcus exclaimed with relief.

" _Of course,"_ the older spirit smiled. _"My fellow Harbingers and I have been warming ourselves here, trying to evade Hircine."_

Marcus looked around, confused. Even his wolf-senses could detect no other beings present except the four living souls. "But…there's no one else here, Harbinger," he stated, puzzled.

Kodlak actually laughed. _"You see me because your heart knows only me as the Companions' leader. I'd wager old Vignar could see half a dozen of my predecessors. And I see them all. The ones in Sovngarde; the ones trapped with me in Hircine's realm. And they all see you, Dragonborn. You've brought honor to the name of the Companions. We won't soon forget it."_

"Vilkas said that you could still be cured of lycanthropy," Marcus said hurriedly. Praise was nice, but he didn't feel as though he deserved it. He hadn't been a Companion that long.

" _Did he now?"_ Kodlak smiled. _"I can only hope. You still have the witches' heads?"_

"Right here," Marcus said, hefting the bag.

" _Excellent,"_ replied the Harbinger. _"Throw one of them into the fire, here. It will release their magic, for me at least."_

"Will it work for Alesan, or Sinding, or any of the rest of us?" Marcus asked, needing to hear the answer he wanted so desperately.

" _It should,_ " Kodlak nodded. _"But I beg you to free my soul first. Hircine is close. He may not enter here except through the spirit of the beast within. He knows what you are about to do, and will try to stop you once you release it."_

Marcus didn't wait to be asked twice. He undid the ties on the neck of the bag and – grimacing – drew out one of the witches' heads, which surprisingly had not decomposed as he feared they might. The face was frozen in the attitude of hate and horror, the same as it had been when he had severed it from the Hagraven's body, and he tossed it into the fire, hearing it sizzle, nearly gagging at the fetid odor as it was consumed.

Kodlak's spirit convulsed and gave a sudden jerk as he arched his back. A huge, red-tinted wolf, similar to the ones Marcus had summoned in Forebear's Holdout, separated itself from the old Harbinger and began to attack him immediately.

"Come on, let's help him!" Aela cried. "For Kodlak!"

Though Sinding had never met the Harbinger while he was alive, he cried out in answer to Aela's rallying call. "For Kodlak!" he roared.

Alesan howled and leaped on the red wolf, and Marcus drew Wuuthrad, placing himself in front of the defenseless spirit of the Harbinger. Instinctively he knew if the spirit-wolf destroyed Kodlak's soul, he would never get to Sovngarde. It would be Hircine's revenge for rejecting his 'gift.'

It was an ugly, brutal fight, and Marcus wondered if the spirit wolf was strong because Kodlak had been a werewolf for so long, or if other Daedric influences were at work. He kept his thoughts private, however, and concentrated on the job at hand. At length, with one final, mournful howl, the red wolf dissipated, leaving the chamber silent once more, except for the heavy breathing of the living. Marcus turned to Kodlak. "It's done," he panted. "That was quite a fight."

" _It was indeed, Marcus,"_ Kodlak bowed, in a rare use of his name. _"You have slain the beast within me. I thank you for this gift. The other Harbingers remain trapped by Hircine, though. Perhaps from Sovngarde, the heroes of old can join me in their rescue. The Harrowing of the Hunting Grounds,"_ he mused. " _It would be a battle of such triumph!"_

"Look up Hakon, Gormlaith and Felldir when you get there," Marcus grinned. "I'm sure they'd be up for an adventure like that!"

" _I will,"_ the old Harbinger chuckled. _"And perhaps some day, you'll join us in that battle. But for now, cure your son, and the other brave warrior I see here with you who fought by your side. Only, before you cure yourself, there is something I must tell you."_

"Oh?" Marcus lifted an eyebrow. "What is it?"

" _It is this, Dragonborn,"_ Kodlak said solemnly. _"From this side of the veil I see things more clearly than before, and I know the challenges you will soon face. I speak of the vampires."_

"Vampires?" Aela repeated. "They've been a growing problem, Harbinger, but what does this have to do with Marcus and his wishing for a cure?"

" _These are Volkihar vampires, spawned by the Daedric Prince Molag Bal himself,"_ Kodlak warned. _"They are more powerful than any other type of vampire you have ever faced. You may find that the curse of lycanthropy may be a blessing in disguise as you go up against them."_

"Are you saying I should wait?" Marcus couldn't believe his ears. After all he'd gone through to find a cure, now the Harbinger was telling him to reconsider.

" _You know your skills and abilities better than anyone, Marcus,"_ Kodlak said kindly. _"But as a werewolf you are immune to the vampirism disease. You are more powerful in wolf-form than you would be as a human. While I do not advise you to go against your better judgement, or subject yourself to Hircine's torment any longer than necessary, I do caution you against throwing away what might be an advantage, believing it to be a weakness."_

The Harbinger appeared to take a deep breath, or at least, he straightened and gave a bow to Aela, Sinding and Alesan before turning back to Marcus.

" _When you have finished here,"_ he said, _"return to Jorrvaskr. Triumph in your victory, before your destiny draws you further into the darkness. And lead my Companions to further glory. I name you as my successor; you are the new Harbinger of the Companions. I go to my long-awaited rest, now. Farewell!"_

The spirit of the Harbinger faded from view, and all was quiet once more in Ysgramor's Tomb. At least, until they called forth Sinding's wolf, and then Alesan's, neither of whom were as tough to beat as Kodlak's.

"Dad!" Alesan choked, when his wolf was ripped from him and slain, and he reverted to human form for the first time in weeks. Marcus enveloped his boy in his arms, and both Sinding and Aela retreated to a far corner of the chamber to give the two some privacy.

"Dad, I'm so sorry! I didn't know that would happen!" Tears streaked his son's face as Marcus hugged him close.

"It's okay, son, it's okay," he soothed, his own face wet. "It's all over now. You're safe! Thank the gods you're finally safe!"

Neither could say much for a long time after, until Vilkas and Farkas wandered in.

"So, did I hear Aela right?" Vilkas rumbled. "The old man named you Harbinger?"

Marcus lifted his head. "That wasn't my choice," Marcus began, but Vilkas waved him off.

"I'm not upset," he said. "Honestly, I think he made the right decision. I don't have what it takes to be a Harbinger."

"If 'Kas is okay with it, it's fine by me," Farkas put in. "Hey, Alesan, good to see you back to normal again!" He lightly punched the boy on the arm, and Marcus was stunned to realize that his son was at least a half-foot taller than he'd been just a few weeks ago. He said as much to the others.

"You know, now that you mention it, he _does_ look taller," Aela mused. "I wonder…"

"What?" Marcus asked.

"Wolves mature much faster than humans," she said. "A wolf pup is already grown at the end of a year, while a human is still a baby." She wrinkled her nose distastefully, as if the thought of having children appalled her. "Alesan was a werewolf, and had the beastblood for almost a month. A wolf would grow and mature quite a bit in that time."

"I feel older," Alesan admitted.

"You're almost as tall as Blaise now," Marcus observed. "Well, in any case, we'd better get you home so your brother and sisters will know it worked, and you're safe again."

"What about you, Dad?" Alesan asked. "Aren't you going to cure yourself?"

Now that it had come down to that question, Marcus hesitated.

"Yes, Marcus," Sinding said. "I thought that's what you wanted more than anything."

"I thought so, too," Marcus said slowly.

"But Kodlak got you to thinking, didn't he?" Aela put in.

"You saw him?" Farkas asked, eyes widening.

Aela gave an exasperated sigh. "Of course we did, Ice-Brain! Why do you think we came here in the first place?"

"Oh, yeah," the shaggy-haired twin said, nodding.

"What did the old man tell you?" Vilkas asked, and Marcus explained to the wolf twins the Harbinger's last words.

"He spoke wisdom, surely," Vilkas considered. "And for that reason, I will not seek a cure at this time."

His brother blinked. "I thought that's what _you_ wanted, 'Kas?" Farkas demanded, confused.

"I did," Vilkas admitted. "But I wouldn't feel right about our Harbinger going up against a bunch of blood-thirsty vampires all on his own."

"I won't be alone, Vilk—" Marcus began, but the other wolf-twin interrupted him.

"Then I'm not getting cured yet either," Farkas said firmly. Aela hid a smug smile.

"You let us know when you're ready to lead the assault against them, Harbinger," Vilkas declared. "I will fight by your side."

"So will I," Aela vowed.

"Me too," Farkas added.

"And I as well," Sinding said. "I might not be a werewolf anymore, but if the Companions will accept me as one of them, and help me prepare myself, I would be glad to fight by your side."

"There speaks a man of honor!" Vilkas said with a rare smile. He pounded Sinding on the back. "We would be glad to have you in our Company, brother!"

Marcus was too overwhelmed too speak. Too much had happened in such a short time, and all he could think of right now was how lucky he was to have friends like these. He clapped each of them on the shoulder in turn and finally said, "Let's head home."

They found Ysgramor's Shield in a chest in a far corner of the Tomb, and Aela, of all people, insisted they bring it with them.

"Ordinarily, I don't think much about…possessions," she said. "But this belonged to Ysgramor, just as Wuuthrad did, and we should keep it at Jorrvaskr."

They left the Tomb and before they headed back to Winterhold, Marcus followed the path that led from a small door at the back of the Tomb up to the Word Wall Tamsyn had told him about. The Word was _tah,_ meaning "pack", and was the third word he needed to complete the Animal Allegiance Shout. He didn't happen to have a dragon soul to unlock its deeper meaning, however. Tamsyn had insisted he use up any he'd captured immediately.

From Winterhold they walked all the way back to Windhelm, to take the carriage back to Whiterun. Alesan was cold and exhausted, and the clothes he wore were ragged and too small for him. Since they had time before Alfarinn would return, they waited at the Candlehearth, and Marcus bought his son new clothes that would fit properly. The boy fell asleep during their meal, and had to be wakened when it was time to catch the carriage, whereupon he promptly fell back asleep, leaning against his father, and didn't rouse again until they pulled into Whiterun.

The Circle took Sinding with them to Jorrvaskr and bid farewell to their new Harbinger, and to Alesan.

"You go have a talk with Lars, young Alesan," Vilkas said sternly. "Let him know you're alright, and that what you were doing was wrong."

"I will, Mister Vilkas," the boy promised, subdued, "though I don't know if he'll want to be seen with me anymore."

"Talk to him," the wolf twin insisted. "You may be surprised."

"It's a bit late to go knocking on doors right now," Marcus put in. "But first thing tomorrow. Vilkas is right, and the two of you boys need to talk it out."

"Yes, Dad," his son agreed unhappily. But his apprehension vanished when he stepped inside and was greeted joyfully by his brother, sisters and Lydia. Serana hung in the background, and was relieved to see Marcus return.

"It's so good to have you home again, Als," Sofie smiled, hugging him. "We've missed you so much!"

"I was at Jorrvaskr," he protested. "You saw me every day."

"But we don't speak wolf," Lucia grinned. "It's hard to hold a conversation with someone that way."

"Got another surprise for you, little brother," Blaise put in, smiling. "The workmen finally finished my room downstairs. You've got the one upstairs all to yourself now."

"So I don't have to hear you snore anymore?" Alesan asked, skeptically.

Blaise blinked. "I don't snore!" he protested indignantly. "You're the one who saws logs all night long!" Then he saw the twinkle in his brother's eyes and knew Alesan was truly home again. "Ah, ya got me on that one!"

Then nothing would do but for Alesan to be taken downstairs to view the two new bedrooms that had once been Marcus' study.

"Where's all my stuff, Lydia?" Marcus asked her quietly after the children had trooped to the basement.

"Right now, packed away in trunks in your bedroom," she said wryly. "My Thane, I really think you're going to need a bigger house."

"Yeah, I think you're right," he agreed. "I'll have to do something about that. Any word from Cyrodiil?"

The dark-haired Nord shook her head. "No, Thane, I'm sorry. There's been nothing."

He nodded dourly, not wanting to discuss much more while he still had a houseguest to greet.

"Fitting in alright, Serana?" he asked. "I'm sorry I had to leave you here in the lurch like this."

"No, it's alright," the vampire girl said, with a wistful expression on her face. "Everyone here has been very kind to me."

It was true. After the initial shock of Marcus disclosing to his children that he was bringing a vampire into his home and they were to treat her as a guest, the girls in particular had warmed up to Serana and insisted on having her try on their dresses and style her hair. She was looking very different right now with it cascading over one shoulder in ringlets, wearing a red dress of Sofie's that the Nord girl insisted she keep.

"I don't much like red," she had said, wrinkling her nose. "It makes me look like a patch of rust."

"I like red," Lucia had put in.

"That's because your hair is darker than mine," her sister said. "It looks better on you."

Lydia had at first been extremely wary, and without words let Serana know she'd be watching her, but after two days with no incidents, and with Serana keeping indoors all of the time, either reading or spending time with the girls, she relaxed her guard – but only a little.

For his part, Blaise became awkward and more silent than usual around the vampire girl. He was kind and answered her questions, but would blush furiously and retreat to his room when his sisters teased him.

"I think he likes you, Serana!" Lucia had crowed.

"I'm flattered," Serana smiled. "I think he's nice, too. You've all been very nice to me."

"I think he'd like to be nicer," Lucia suggested, grinning, and her sister poked her in the ribs.

"Don't be a brat, Lucia!" she scolded. "Can't you see you're embarrassing Blaise?"

None of them had any real idea just how old Serana was, or considered that she might not find any attraction to a fifteen-year-old boy.

Now, seeing Serana again reminded Marcus he still had other things on his plate.

"I imagine you're anxious to get to Volkihar Keep to find your mother?" he suggested.

"Yes," she answered eagerly. Staying here with Marcus' family had been fun, but it only made her regret the childhood she couldn't remember. Had her parents ever been this normal? Not that Marcus was a normal parent. Both Lucia and Sofie were sorry he spent so much time away. But they also knew that since he was the Dragonborn it couldn't be helped. He made up for it by spending as much time as possible with them when he was home. She didn't know what kind of parent their mother was, but both girls, when she had asked, spoke in glowing terms of their adopted mother.

"She's the best!" Lucia said, practically in worship. "She's taught us all kinds of songs and games, and spells, and—"

"And she and Papa try to take it in turns when they have to be gone," Sofie added. "One of them tries to stay here for us. It's only been recently—"

There was an awkward silence after that. The girls didn't know how much to trust the person traveling with their father, and Serana already knew how concerned Marcus was at his wife's lateness in returning.

"When did you want to leave?" she asked him briskly now.

"Tomorrow," he said. "I've been running all over Skyrim, and I could use some sleep tonight."

Serana looked at him speculatively before whispering, "You didn't cure yourself. I can still smell it on you. I thought that's one of the reasons you went?"

"I know," he nodded, "but…something came up that made me rethink things a bit."

"Oh?"

Marcus gave a resigned sigh. "It was pointed out to me that being a werewolf might give me certain…advantages…in the days to come."

"I…see…" she said slowly. It was probably true, she realized. If he was a werewolf, he wouldn't need to worry about being turned into a vampire after an attack. He was also, she knew, much more powerful as a werewolf, and she'd already witnessed him summoning an ethereal pack to help him when the odds were against him. Add to the fact that he was Dragonborn, and could use the Dragon Shouts, and she was surprised he hadn't taken over Tamriel yet and declared himself Emperor. If his wife truly was the Arch-Mage, as she'd heard, and was as powerful as the girls made her out to be, she felt sorry for anyone who might try to stand against them.

"Did you need to get something to eat?" Marcus asked her now.

Serana realized it had been two days; yes, she was feeling hungry, and admitted as much. "Know of any good places around here?" she asked.

"As it happens, yes," he grinned. "Whitewater Watch is a notorious bandit den just east of here, on the other side of the river past Honningbrew Meadery." He pulled out his map and showed her its location. "Every so often, Jarl Balgruuf asks me to clear it out. It's due for an inspection."

"I think I'll wander over there and see what's on the menu," Serana grinned. "I'll be back later."

"Did you need me to come with you?" he asked, concerned about letting her go alone.

"I'll be fine," she assured him. "You just got back. You should spend the time with your children, Marcus."

"Thanks, Serana," he smiled gratefully. "Take care of yourself."

"Don't wait up for me," she told him. "Get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

"I'll sleep when you get back," he said firmly. "You're my guest, and I won't rest easy until you return."

"Yes, Dad," she mocked him gently, letting herself out. As she closed the door behind her she felt the stinging in her eyes. Had her own father ever worried about her like that? She knew the answer, and the rage she felt building in her for his betrayal of her didn't bode well for the bandits of Whitewater Watch.

* * *

Reydin Glane approached the Grey Fox with a gleam in his eyes. Argis was two steps behind him, grinning wickedly. Cicero brought up the rear, two rolled-up maps in his hands.

"Sir, we've got them," Reydin announced.

The Guildmaster sat up and took notice. He'd been gone most of the afternoon, tending to his street-life alter-ego as Lance de Fer, dealer in antiquities. He'd asked subtle, innocuous questions of his patrons to find out how much they might have heard regarding the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold. Most of it was merely an affirmation of her reputation as one of the most powerful mages Tamriel had seen in a long time. She was also known to be a Master Healer, and tended to the poor and downtrodden without asking for compensation, something that set the physicians of Cyrodiil completely on edge.

"If she offers her services for free," one stout patriarch complained, "who will bother coming to us?"

 _You mean who will pay your inflated fees and keep you in the lifestyle to which you have grown accustomed,_ Dante thought privately.

"That's not real medicine," another dismissed. "It's just a lot of mumbles and hokum."

 _Says the man who was rejected from the Mages Guild because he had no real talent for it,_ the Guildmaster chuckled to himself.

"She's not making friends everywhere, I can tell you that," the third, an Altmer woman, sniffed. "There are those who would love to see her taken down a peg or two."

"I can't imagine anyone who minds what she does up there in her own College," Lance de Fer ventured.

The woman looked down her long, patrician nose at the Breton merchant. "Oh, trust me," his patron intoned. "She's made enemies…serious enemies." But she had clammed up after that and refused to say more. The mere fact that the woman was Altmer proved nothing, but Dante hadn't gotten where he was in life by dismissing anything that seemed irrelevant.

"Show me what you have," he said now to the three men in front of him. Minnow was absent, still spreading word to their other branches to create as much chaos as possible for the Dominion while remaining hidden. So far, it was working beautifully.

"We believe she's in Vilverin," Cicero said proudly.

"What makes you think that?" the Guildmaster frowned. "We have to be sure. We can't waste time and resources about this if you're wrong.

"We studied the maps," Argis said. "Reydin recognized the layout as a ruin he'd been in before the Thalmor took it over."

"I'm convinced it's Vilverin," his second-in-command said. "It's been a while since I was there…a long while, in fact…but that central pillar you mentioned could be this one, right here." He pointed to it on the floor plan. "There's also some other details you mentioned to me that match these features here," he continued. "The passageways leading off from it, the altar area here, the stone benches you saw here."

"So now we head to Vilverin?" Cicero asked excitedly.

"Not yet," the Grey Fox said. "If we try to barge in the front door we might make some headway, but the Thalmor have that portal, and they can get the Arch-Mage out before we could get to her. In addition, if they've got one portal, they've probably got others, and they may be using them to travel quickly between the Ayleid ruins. I have a feeling that whatever they're plotting goes much further than just kidnapping your Lady Tamsyn. If she's as powerful as some are saying, the Dominion is taking the first major step towards eliminating one of the people who could potentially stop them."

"Then we have to get in there now!" Cicero and Argis both exclaimed, frustrated.

"And we will, gentlemen, I assure you," the Guildmaster promised them both. "But we'll do it my way. That way, I know what to expect, and we stand a better chance of getting her out alive."

"They might already have killed her," Reydin suggested, withdrawing from Cicero's sudden glare.

"I don't think they will," his superior soothed. "They seem convinced she knows something she's not sharing with them. Thalmor despise not knowing something. I think it's a racial flaw; they just hate being kept out of the loop. They're probably going to use their…persuasion tactics," he coughed slightly, "to convince her to share with the rest of the class."

"What do you suggest we do?" Cicero asked with deadly calm. Anyone who knew him – as Argis did – knew the little man was just one wrong word away from losing whatever shred of control he had over himself.

"You, Argis and I are going to sneak back into that Watchtower and use the portal to get into the ruin," the Guildmaster said, and Cicero visibly relaxed. "We'll use whatever resources we have to do this as invisibly as possible. Stealth and quiet, gentlemen. While Reydin and Minnow create a diversion topside, we'll be inside, finding your Arch-Mage. We're going to get her out, and we're going to take out anyone that gets in our way. That will send a message to the Dominion that the Arch-Mage has friends who are not to be trifled with."

* * *

Tamsyn had by now completely lost all track of time. Was it Morndas or Sundas? Was it day or night? Had she been captured yesterday or last week? She no longer knew, no longer cared. All she knew or cared about was making the pain stop. Every time she fell asleep, the odious female guard, Oresta, would slap her awake again. Each time she woke up, Justiciar Telperion was there, trying to probe her mind.

"You'd best give in and give me something to report," she gritted at one point. "The Observers are generally patient, but even they demand results."

"Who are they?" Tamsyn demanded weakly. "Where are they? I don't see anyone."

"They are watching from the next room, through a window we installed here," the Justiciar said. "They are behind your head, which is why you can't see them. Now, tell me once more, what are you hiding at the College."

"Blisterwort and wheat," Tamsyn struggled to say, receiving another mental blow for her efforts.

"Do not toy with me!" the Thalmor growled, struggling to break through Tamsyn's defenses. It shouldn't have been this difficult.

"Why not?" the Breton girl gasped. "It's so fun to see you lose your composure. Why do you wear that mask?"

"That is none of your business!" the Justiciar roared, launching another mental onslaught at Tamsyn that required all her strength to focus. Words were a waste of much needed energy here.

 _Touched a nerve, did I?_ Tamsyn thought privately, even while she squirmed against the probing. _Just how far can I push you?_ She found that chink in her tormentor's defenses again and with every ounce of mental resistance she could spare, she sent her own tendril of thought into it.

 _War. Chaos. Slavery. Betrayal. Loss._

" _NOOO!"_ the Justiciar – no, _Sylfaen_ – screamed inside. _"STAY OUT OF MY MIND!"_

The contact was forcefully broken, and the Justiciar – Sylfaen – staggered back. "We will continue this another time," she vowed shakily, before fleeing the room. The guard, Oresta, did not return, and Tamsyn was left alone with her thoughts.

Physically she was exhausted. Mentally, she was relieved the ordeal was over for now. But so many questions still flurried around in her mind. The thoughts and feelings that had flitted through the Thalmor's mind just before she had forced Tamsyn out had the Breton girl curious and confused. Just exactly who was Sylfaen Telperion? She was older even than Tamsyn had originally believed her to be. Something had happened to make her – no, _force_ her – to wear the mask. There hadn't been anything magical about it; she had learned that soon enough during their "sessions" together. And why would she reject her identity as a Thalmor Justiciar? Somewhere in her past, Sylfaen Telperion had been through things most people – if they were lucky – never experienced. Who had betrayed her? Was that why she needed the mask? Was there someone out there in Tamriel she was avoiding, and was using the mask to hide her identity?

Another thought occurred to Tamsyn: perhaps it was someone within the Dominion itself who was a threat to the Justiciar. Perhaps even someone higher up in the organization. That didn't explain the feelings of resentment at being a slave. She wished she could have actually _seen_ memories, but she hadn't been in the woman's mind all that long; just a few heartbeats, actually. It wasn't enough time to experience more. But now, perhaps, the Thalmor knew exactly what it felt like to have someone inside your head who didn't belong there.

* * *

 _[Author's Note: Thank you to MsCollins for some valuable input. I appreciate you taking the time to read and review. A story is only good if the readers enjoy it._

 _Next up, rescues! Serana has a heart-to-heart with her mother, and the Thalmor get a taste from that can of 'whoop-ass' Tamsyn promised them. Thanks for reading!]_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Odahviing dropped Marcus and Serana off at Northwatch Keep. Marcus felt it wouldn't be a very good idea to announce their arrival at Volkihar by riding in on a great red dragon. They took the skiff across the inlet and dragged it further up on the shore to keep the tide from washing it away. He had no idea how long it would take to find Valerica, but the waves lapping the shore of the island were already creeping further up the beach with each passing moment.

"We have to go around the west side of the island to get to the back of the castle," Serana explained. "The inlet is on that side."

So even though it was difficult to see the huge fortress clearly through the fog and mist, Marcus and Serana dropped to a crouch and stealthily made their way around the beach.

"Wow," Serana said in hushed tones. "The castle looks so big from here. I mean, it's always been big, but…you know…" Her voice dropped off, unnerved at how small she felt.

Marcus threw her a smile. "I felt the same way the first time I went to Dragonsreach," he said kindly. "I'd never seen anything that big in Skyrim since I came here."

"Where are you from?" Serana asked as they picked their way around the tidal pools. "You're an Imperial, I'm guessing. Are you from somewhere in Cyrodiil?"

"Uh…no," Marcus replied. He didn't want to get into his decidedly unbelievable past with her right now. He still didn't know Serana that well. To his knowledge, only Faendal in Riverwood and Cicero himself knew where he and Tamsyn had come from. "I'm from a lot farther away," he added, to soften any kind of rebuff Serana might have felt. "I've only been in Skyrim for a handful of years now. What about you?" he asked, swiftly deflecting the attention from himself. "Have you always been a vampire?"

Serana hesitated, troubled. "That's…a long story," she finally said.

"I'd like to hear it, if you don't mind," Marcus said, pausing and sitting down on a large rock. "I need a break anyway. This is rough going, and rowing across the inlet was no picnic in a skiff."

"What's a 'picnic'?" Serana asked, curious.

Marcus chuckled. "It's where you pack a meal and go out into the country to eat and enjoy being in the middle of nature."

"Isn't that kind of dangerous?" Serana asked.

Again, Marcus gave a small laugh. "Not where I came from. It was quite safe. No dragons or wildlife to bother you, criminals were mostly locked away. It was a very easy place to live."

"So why did you leave it?" the vampire girl asked, and Marcus realized that she'd avoided his question by turning the conversation back to him. Alright, then, he'd answer a few of her questions, and then perhaps she would answer some of his.

"I didn't want to leave it," he said finally, making up his mind. "I died, Serana. The…carriage I was riding in crashed, and I died, and my wife with me." Let her think he had been born and raised in Nirn. He didn't believe she could handle the knowledge of other worlds out there.

"That's….not possible…." Serana breathed, wide-eyed.

"Yes, it was," he said somberly, and she could see the pain in his eyes. "But Akatosh decided I still had important things to do, so he brought me back, and placed my soul into the first body he could find…an Imperial, as it happened. I woke up in a cart filled with Stormcloak soldiers – and ironically Tamsyn, who went on to become my wife here – headed for a place called Helgen, to be executed by the Imperial Legion."

"Wait a moment! _You're_ Imperial!" Serana exclaimed. "I mean, _now_ you are. Didn't that make a difference?"

"None at all," Marcus said dourly, shaking his head. "I think the Imperial Captain just didn't want to bother with the paperwork she would have had to fill out. I was summarily sent to the block. Ironically, it was Alduin who saved me by choosing that moment to announce his triumphant return by attacking the village. Tamsyn and I managed to escape, and I learned soon after that I was Dragonborn."

Serana turned this over in her mind. "Maybe that's why…" she murmured, letting her voice fade.

"That's why what, Serana?" he prompted.

"Why you seem to act so much older than you are," she said, searching for the right words. "I mean, you don't look much older than I appear to be, but when we first arrived in Whiterun, I saw how you behaved with your children, and with the townspeople. Everyone seems to look to you for advice, to make decisions, that kind of thing. You have all this power, and yet you live simply, in a house that's almost too small to hold all of you. You could be the Jarl, or the Emperor himself with that kind of power."

"But I don't want to be the Jarl or the Emperor," Marcus said firmly. "I'm quite happy being Marcus Dragonborn, of Whiterun. Jarl Balgruuf is a good friend of mine. I would never betray his trust in me by deposing him. He was one of the first people I met who treated me with decency and kindness when I first came to Skyrim. I would never stab him in the back that way."

He paused before continuing, as if choosing his words carefully. "As for the Emperor…well, I don't know the man. I've never met him. I don't agree with all the decisions he made in his long life; I might have done things differently. Most of them haven't affected me because I haven't been here all that long, really. But one thing I know about being in a position of power, is that you can't have it all your own way all the time. Titus Mede the Second made the choices he felt were right at the time, to protect his people, whether everyone agrees with it or not, and that's a very heavy responsibility to bear. Where I came from our…king…was chosen by the people; he served us, not the other way around. He held power only for a handful of years. If we didn't like what he did, we chose someone else. And his…courtiers…were also chosen by us to represent to him our wants and needs. If they didn't serve us properly, we chose someone new to get the job done."

"That doesn't sound very efficient," Serana commented drily. "Every few years you get a new leader? How do you get anything done? Wouldn't the new king erase anything the old king did?"

"They try," Marcus admitted with a grin, "but I'm just giving you the watered-down version of how it all really works. Believe it or not, sometimes they actually agree to do what the people put them in power to do."

"It all sounds pretty chaotic to me," Serana said. "At least, with one Emperor in charge for life, you know what to expect."

"Yes, and if he's not a good person you're stuck with him," Marcus pointed out, "unless, of course, his detractors decide to step in and do some…house-cleaning. That definitely sounds more chaotic than the system I came from. And we've learned that when one person has absolute power, it only leads to corruption. The ones in power lose sight of the well-being of their people. They're never happy with just a little bit of power. They want it all, and that leads to disaster. Rather like your father right now."

Serana said nothing, but her face was clearly troubled.

"You were going to tell me about you being a vampire," Marcus prompted gently. She hadn't been, actually, but perhaps now she would, since he had shared some confidences of his own.

Indeed, Serana seemed to make up her mind about something as she said, "I guess…we kind of have to go way back, to the very beginning." She gave Marcus a searching look. "Do you know where vampirism came from?"

Marcus had been in Skyrim long enough now, and had been with Tamsyn long enough, that he had a pretty good idea. "I would guess it came from a Daedric lord?"

"Exactly!" Serana nodded. "The first vampire came from Molag Bal. She…was not a willing subject. But she was still the first. Molag Bal is a powerful Daedric Lord, and his will is made reality. For those willing to subjugate themselves, he will still bestow the gift, but they must be powerful in their own right before earning his trust."

Some things were becoming clearer to Marcus. Serana's father must have been powerful enough to have contacted Molag Bal to become a vampire, but it still didn't explain how Serana became one…unless he had turned his own daughter. The thought of it unsettled Marcus in no small measure.

"How did _you_ actually become a vampire, then?" he asked, unable to keep the question from popping out.

Serana shifted uncomfortably. "The ceremony was…degrading," she finally said. "Let's not revisit that. But we all took part in it."

"What, _all_ of you?" Marcus was stunned. How could Harkon have allowed his own daughter to participate?

"Not really a wholesome family activity," Serana admitted, shrugging, "but I guess it's something you do when you give yourselves to a Daedric Lord."

"Why would your father do something like that?" Marcus asked appalled, but succeeding in not showing it.

"He was getting older," the girl explained. "He could feel himself getting weaker. He knew someday he would die, and he had no intention of doing it. So he convinced my mother it was something they should do, and I…I went along with them because…" She didn't finish. Her face was a mask of misery.

"Because they were your parents, and you figured they knew best," Marcus nodded, finally understanding. "How has it affected your family?" he asked now. He wanted to know how Serana felt about this now, after all this time. It might have a very strong bearing on what might have to happen later, if Harkon couldn't be convinced to give up his mad scheme.

"Well, you've met most of us," Serana replied. "My father's not exactly the most…stable, and eventually he drove my mother crazy with him. And it all ended with me being locked underground for who knows how long. It's definitely been a bad thing, on the whole." She didn't look at him, her eyes focused on something in her past.

Marcus reached out and lifted her chin to meet her eyes. "Are you alright?" he asked kindly, and was surprised to see tears welling up in them.

"I will be," she replied bravely. "Just….give me a little time, okay?"

He patted her shoulder and stood. "Let's get moving, then," he suggested. "The sooner we find your mother, the sooner we'll know what our options are."

Serana nodding, swiping a hand quickly over her eyes. "It's this way," she said, leaping up and leading the way. "Just around this bend."

The north side of the island had been dredged out in the far distant past to create a man-made deep harbor that would allow merchant ships access to loading docks. The sheer volume of rock and earth that had had to be removed to achieve this was an engineering marvel, and Marcus was suitably impressed. He was less impressed with the skeletons that patrolled the grounds.

"Why are they even here?" he asked Serana. "I thought you said this area was unused?"

"I thought so, too," the girl replied. "I mean, it was never used when I was still living here."

"Maybe your father put them here to catch your mother if she surfaced."

"Maybe," Serana admitted, concerned. "We still have to get in there if we're going to find her, though."

He sighed. "Alright, give me a minute," he said in resignation, ducking back around the bend. He shifted quickly to wolf form and growled softly, "Stay behind me!" before charging in.

It was with no small amount of irony that Marcus compared a werewolf fighting skeletons to a dog chewing on a bone. The fight was ugly, brutal and short, and in no time he and Serana were entering the Keep through a locked door at the top of a short flight of stairs set high above the harbor.

Immediately, Marcus could smell death hounds and hear their pads prowling around the room beyond the one they entered. He let Serana know, and they both dropped into a crouch.

"I don't understand it," she whispered. "There shouldn't be anyone living in this part of the castle. When I was here not long ago I took note of all my father's followers. They were all fawning over him in the great hall you saw."

"Maybe he's acquired a few new ones since you went away," Marcus growled. "In any case, let's proceed with caution. You know how to get through here, so tell me, which way do we go?"

"We'll have to go through the sewers," she apologized. "It's…pungent on its best days, and at its worst? Well, trust me when I say you should be glad you weren't around here then."

She pointed the way out to a balcony overlooking troughs in the floor where fetid water moved sluggishly in their channels. Three death hounds prowled here, and Marcus knew it would be better to take them out quickly. "Stay up here and hit them from a distance," he cautioned her. "Just try not to hit me, okay?"

"I promise nothing!" she grinned, cheekily, but stayed where she was while he bounded down the stairs to deal with the death hounds. Unfortunately for Marcus, three hounds soon became five, and while he knew he was becoming a more powerful werewolf, he also realized he was in trouble here. The ice spikes Serana shot from the balcony weren't doing enough damage, and she was too far away to use her life-draining spell. It was everything Marcus could do to keep the hellhounds from getting to her, but he was being pressed further and further back toward the staircase.

In desperation, he howled. The two ghostly, reddish-tinted wolves appeared and leaped onto two of the fiendish dogs.

"Can't you shoot those puppies with fire?" he demanded roughly of Serana.

"I don't know that spell!" she shot back. "There's a reason for it. Vampires and fire don't mix well!"

Oh. Well, that made sense. "Sorry!" he called back to her. "I didn't think of that."

The two summoned wolves had torn into the death hounds, and had taken them down, and now turned their attention to two of the others, leaving Marcus free to focus on the one closest to him. In short order he ripped out its throat, but held off consuming its cold, dead heart. As they made their way around the sewer and up a short flight of stairs, a figure rushed out of a small room at the far end and threw itself upon them, screeching horribly.

"My place!" it shrieked. "Mine! Mine! Mine!" It was female, dressed in rags, and when she raised her hand to drain Marcus of his life, he realized she was a vampire.

"A feral!" Serana cried. "What's she doing here?"

"I don't know," Marcus growled, fending off the woman's attacks, but unwilling to hurt her. His spirit wolves had no such qualms, however, and quickly finished her off.

"How did she even get in here?" Marcus wondered, looking down in pity at the still, lifeless form.

"She might have been one of the human cattle," Serana said without thinking.

"Cattle?" Marcus rumbled. He glared at the vampire girl. "You mean your father keeps people here to feed off of?"

"We're vampires, Marcus," Serana said defensively. "How do you think we've survived all this time? Of course my father kept people here as a source of blood. This one probably escaped before she was drained of life, and became a vampire while hiding out down here. From the bones and skeever corpses, I'd say that's how she survived. I wonder how long she endured before fear and loneliness drove her mad," she mused, compassion edging into her voice.

"Do you think your father-?"

"No," Serana shook her head firmly. "My father wasn't the one who turned her. He's…very careful about who he…chooses to drink from. The very act of…feeding…is incredibly intimate for us." She wouldn't look at him as she spoke, and Marcus had the feeling that if she could have, she would have blushed. "There's an…exchange…during the process, which is one way people can contract sanguinare vampiris. One of my father's followers, a Dunmer named Feran Sadri, makes a blood potion for him to drink, to ensure he doesn't inadvertently create a powerful vampire lord who might challenge him."

"So that's why the reward of his blood is very desirable to another vampire," Marcus nodded, still uneasy about how the poor feral vampire had lived and died.

Serana nodded, as well. "We should keep moving," she said, finding an old sack and covering the dead vampire's upper body with it. It was a small gesture, but Marcus appreciated that she made the effort. They found their way blocked by a raised wooden drawbridge and had to backtrack to find the lever before they could move forward again.

"One of my father's little double-blind traps," Serana explained. "Installed when he started becoming more and more obsessed about security."

The rest of the undercroft was a nightmare of skeletons attacking them, skeevers and deathhounds jumping out of nowhere, rooms filled with the stench and detritus of carnage and sewage, and finally, in a room nearly filled with cobwebs, the largest frostbite spider Marcus had seen yet.

"Gods, I hate those things!" he announced when it was finally dead. He threw the lever Serana indicated to lower the last bridge blocking their out to the courtyard and several moments later emerged into a night filled with fresh air, with just a hint of the tang of salt from the Sea of Ghosts not far beyond the walls.

"Mmm…" Marcus murmured, reverting back to human form. "That smells wonderful! I'd forgotten what fresh air feels and smells like!"

The courtyard, even in the moonslight, looked creepy and dead. Very little grew here, and what did grow was taking over in places it shouldn't.

"Oh no!" Serana exclaimed in dismay. "What happened to this place? Everything's been torn down. The whole place looks…well, dead! It's like we're the first to set foot here in centuries!" She ran from one side of the large area to the other. There appeared to be towers at each of the cardinal points, though the one at the north side had collapsed. There was a fenced-in garden area to one side, but the most prominent feature was the sundial in the center of the courtyard.

"What happened?" Marcus asked, trying to imagine what it might once have looked like.

"At a guess, I'd say my father," Serana scowled. "It looks like he went on a rampage after my mother left." She walked up the few steps to a balcony near where the tower entrance had collapsed. "This used to lead into the castle's great hall," she told Marcus. "I used to walk through here after evening meals. It was beautiful, once." She turned away, staring out over the courtyard. "My father never liked this place. If he had only come out here with us, he might have seen its beauty." There was a definite note of sadness in her voice.

She left the balcony and moved further away, near the garden area. Marcus followed.

"This was my mother's garden," she murmured. "Do you know how beautiful something can be when it's been tended by a master for hundreds of years? She would have hated to see it like this." Regretfully she left the garden and returned to the center of the courtyard.

"There's something wrong with the moondial here," she frowned.

"You mean the sundial?"

Serana gave a low chuckle. "I didn't misspeak. I mean, yes, it was originally a sundial. The people who lived here before must have put it in. I always wondered why Mother didn't just tear it out. Kind of pointless for a vampire, you know? But she loved it. I guess in her mind it was like having a sculpture, or a piece of art, if you're in to that sort of thing."

"So, what's wrong with it?" Marcus asked. He could see that the perimeter had been altered to indicate the phases of the moons, Masser and Secunda. Each phase was represented by a pearlescent carved crest.

"Some of the crests are missing," Serana pointed out. She peered at the large armature pointing into the night sky. "And the dial is askew. I didn't even know the crests could be removed. Maybe my mother is trying to tell us something?"

"It's possible," Marcus shrugged. "What are you thinking?"

"If we could find the missing crests and put them back into place, then…I don't know," she said helplessly. "But it's all we've got to go on right now."

"Alright," Marcus nodded. "You start looking over there, I'll take a look over that way."

They split up, and a few moments later Marcus heard Serana call out, "I found one! One of the crescents!"

A glimmer of white caught his eye near a pond and he picked his way around to find a large circle of mother-of-pearl half-buried in the mud.

"Got one over here, too," he spoke up. "A large full moon!"

"There should only be a half-moon crest left to find, then," Serana said excitedly.

Several more minutes of searching found it jammed into a planter on the balcony. With trembling fingers, Serana snapped them into place, then scurried back as the ground shook beneath their feet. The area around the moondial began dropping away, revealing a flight of steps leading down.

"Very clever, mother!" Serana approved. "I certainly didn't see that coming."

"What's down there?" Marcus asked.

"I have no idea," the vampire girl replied. "But hopefully we'll find Mother, and if we're really lucky, she'll have the Elder Scroll with her!"

Marcus had never been a squeamish person; not like Lynne, his first wife, who refused to watch horror movies with him. But even he found the difference between movie gore and the real thing almost too much to stomach. Serana had cautioned him that she didn't know what they would find in this part of the castle, as she'd never been in here. Clearly, someone had at some point during the time she'd been away, as there were gnawed bones everywhere and permanent bloodstains on almost every surface. The smell of rotted flesh was overpowering, and while it didn't seem to bother Serana, to Marcus' overly-sensitive nose it was appalling. But in order to find Valerica they had to push on, past skeleton sentinels and gargoyle statues that sprang to life without warning. Marcus found he had to 'go wolf' again just to stand a chance against them, since even Alduin's Bane was having a hard time cleaving through the tough-as-stone skin.

There were so many twists and turns and switch-backs that he completely lost any sense of direction. Finally, however, since there seemed to be only one clear way through the maze of halls and corridors, they came to a dead-end in what appeared to have been a servants' dining room. Once again, gargoyles leaped to attack, and Serana raised a skeleton guardian to help them as Marcus plowed through first one gargoyle, then another. When all was silent and the dust had settled, they searched the room to find a way through.

"I don't see anything here," Serana complained. "There has to be some way through. I can't believe it would just end here."

"Calm down," Marcus soothed. "Let's think things through. When this place was originally built, the servants in the castle would come here to take their meals, away from the lord and his family."

"But we didn't have servants," Serana pointed out.

"No, but the family your father…removed…would have. A place this big can't exist or run efficiently without them. They would have been loyal to the family, of course, and there was probably some sort of bell system that the lord would ring to summon them to the main part of the house."

"How does that help?" Serana asked skeptically. "We can't just ring a bell and expect my father to calmly let us into the rest of the castle."

"No, but how would the servants have gotten through?" he asked her, eyes roaming around the room, searching. He sniffed the air and found what he'd been looking for – a breath of fresher air than he had been smelling for a long time.

"I suppose a corridor or stairway," Serana said slowly. "But we've looked. There's nothing here. This is a dead end."

"Not quite," Marcus smirked, reverting back to human form for the reveal. He moved over to an alcove in the wall, up a short flight of steps. "Servants were supposed to move around unseen, to disturb the family as little as possible until they were needed. So any place a servant would need to move through had to be hidden." He stepped up to the blank wall, flanked by sconces. "Like this area here," he suggested. Tugging on each sconce in turn, the one on the left rotated with a creak, and the wall recessed and slid into the floor to reveal a flight of stairs leading up.

"That's amazing!" Serana gushed. "How did you figure that out?"

"Oh, I have my ways," he grinned impishly. "Must keep some element of mystery going, mustn't we?"

Serana wisely chose not to reply, but rolled her eyes instead.

The stairs led up several flights, and they encountered no other obstacles on the way. At length, they came to a door which opened into a vast room which looked like a mad scientist's laboratory. This, Marcus realized, must have been Valerica's sanctum.

"Look at this place!" Serana breathed reverently. "This has to be it!"

"This was your mother's laboratory?" Marcus asked, his wolf-keen eyes peering into the shadows both on this level and on the balcony above. A whispered, _"Laas yah niir"_ proved that he and Serana were the only beings present. Valerica wasn't here. His hopes fell.

"I never even knew this place was here!" Serana exclaimed now, poking around the room. "I mean, I knew she was heavily into necromancy. She taught me everything I know. But I had no idea she had a setup like this!"

The vampire girl wandered around the room, lifting up objects and examining them before setting them down and moving to the center of the room, void of any features except for what appeared to be an odd summoning circle. Concentric rings were embossed into the floor, surrounded by candles that were still mysteriously lit.

"Look at all this!" Serana murmured in wonder. "She must have spent years collecting these components. And what's this thing?"

"I have no idea," Marcus replied, coming over to stand next to her. "Any ideas?"

"I'm not sure," Serana frowned. "But it's obviously… _something._ " She seemed to pull herself out of whatever reverie she'd slipped into, because she straightened and looked up at him. "Let's take a look around. There has to be something here that tells us where she's gone."

"What, exactly, are we looking for?" Marcus asked.

"My mother was meticulous about her research," Serana explained. "If we can find her notes, there might be some hints in there."

"Alright," Marcus agreed. "You take a look up there on that balcony. I see some shelves there. I'll go through the books here in this corner."

"Right!" Serana nodded and crossed the room to head up the stairs.

The chamber was quiet for some time while each explored everything Valerica had left behind. Marcus found many ruined books on the shelves that crumbled away at his touch. Valerica had been gone a _long_ time, clearly. It saddened him, and he wondered what sort of lost knowledge had been in them. He loved books, and was delighted to learn that Tamsyn did as well.

"I always collected every book I could in the game," she'd told him. "Just the amount of detail the creators put into it always amazed me."

Thinking of Tamsyn brought back that wave of anxiety he had thought he'd pushed successfully to the back of his mind. What was happening down there in Cyrodiil? And was she safe? As soon as they were done here, he intended to find out, even if it meant flying down to the Imperial City on dragonback and demanding to know what had happened to his wife.

One book on the shelf caught his eye. Amid the various copies of _The Real Barenziah_ and _A Brief History of the Empire,_ which he already had, the book with the strange title _Opusculus Lamae Bal_ caught his eye. The title seemed almost Latin in origin, but that was ridiculous. Latin didn't exist here. He began leafing through it.

" _Tamriel was still young,"_ he read to himself, _"and filled with danger and wondrous magick when Molag Bal walked in the aspect of a man and took a virgin, Lamae Beolfag, from the Nedic Peoples. Savage and loveless, Bal profaned her body, and her screams became the Shrieking Winds, which still haunt certain winding fjords of Skyrim. Shedding a lone droplet of blood on her brow, Bal left Nirn, having sown his wrath. Violated and comatose, Lamae was found by nomads and cared for. A fortnight hence, the nomad wyrd-woman enshrouded Lamae in pall for she had passed into death…That night, Lamae rose from her funeral pyre and set upon the coven, still aflame…And so, Lamae (who is known to us as blood-matron) imprecated her foul aspect upon the folk of Tamriel and begat a brood of countless abominations, from which came the vampires…"_

Marcus stood there, stunned. _Profaned…violated…_ It was too clear to him now. Serana's mother and father had offered their daughter to Molag Bal to be raped and gods-knew what else, to turn her into a vampire like them. The fact that her own parents had undergone a similar ritual was, to Marcus, unimportant. He assumed they had been thinking, reasoning adults who knew what they were letting themselves in for. But to subject their daughter, who couldn't have been twenty years old yet!

Grimly Marcus felt his parental instincts rearing up again in righteous indignation. _How could they?_ Let them do what they want for themselves, but did they ever ask Serana if it was what _she_ wanted? He knew the answer to that.

"Find anything yet?" Serana called from the balcony.

"Still looking!" he said over his shoulder, putting the disturbing book back on the shelf. Fortunately, it was only a few moments later that he found, jammed in between a stack of ruined books, the research notes they were looking for. He didn't bother reading it, beyond assuring himself it was handwritten. He didn't want to know what Valerica had been thinking when she locked her daughter away for a millennia or two. Or three. Who knew?

"I think this might be it," he told Serana as she came down to join him.

"Good!" she said, dusting off her hands. "Because there's nothing up there. Let me see that." She took the leather-bound volume and leafed through it quickly.

"It looks like she was trying to further her necromancy," Serana frowned.

"Necromancy?" Marcus echoed. "Why?"

"I don't know," Serana admitted. "Kind of pointless for a vampire, if you think about it. It seems she was trying to get in contact with the Ideal Masters."

"Who are they?"

"No one is really sure," Serana said, "except that they're very powerful beings who inhabit the Soul Cairn."

"Okay, I'll bite," Marcus said. "What's the Soul Cairn?"

"I'd be careful of references to biting around a vampire," Serana smirked, enjoying the look on his face. Marcus gave her a glare of mock-irritation, but secretly he was delighted she felt comfortable enough around him to tease. "You know how souls can get trapped in soul gems?" she continued more seriously. "And mages use those gems to power their staves and other magical weapons?"

Marcus nodded, suddenly very uncomfortable with the knowledge that he had used soul gems in just that manner without a thought as to whose soul was in the gem or how it had gotten there.

"Well," Serana went on, "some scholars, like my mother, believed that when the soul is used that way, it's not really destroyed. It goes to a place called the Soul Cairn. It seems my mother was trying to reach the Ideal Masters to negotiate a way into the Soul Cairn."

"In order to hide from your father in someplace where he would never look for her," Marcus finished. "It makes sense."

"This thing here in the floor is obviously some kind of portal," Serana said now, examining the circles. "If we could figure out how to open it, we might be able to go through and see if she's there."

"So how do we get it open?" Marcus asked, curious. "Did your mother say how?"

"I think so," the vampire girl said slowly. "It looks like we would need some finely-ground bone meal, some soul gem shards, some purified void salts – oh, damn!" Serana bit out.

Marcus frowned. "What's wrong?"

"It seems she also used some of her own blood," the girl complained. "Which, if we could get that, we wouldn't even need to be doing this." She slumped, dejected and sat down on a chest against the wall, arms folded across her chest.

She was the very picture of someone who felt the rug had been pulled out from under them, but Marcus didn't give up that easily.

"You share her blood," he gently reminded her.

Serana looked up at him as hope bloomed on her pale face. "That's not a bad idea!" she exclaimed. "Let's just hope you're right, though. Failures of this magnitude could be…gruesome."

"We'll take that chance," Marcus said firmly. "We need that Elder Scroll. And you need to find your mother. What do we need again? She must have that stuff here. She's got an alchemy lab Tamsyn would die for."

"I really hope I get to meet this wife of yours," Serana grinned. "She sounds like my kind of person."

"I hope you get the chance, too," Marcus said sincerely. He searched through the shelves as Serana read off the list of ingredients and after some scrounging, found enough for one chance at opening the portal.

"Alright," he said finally, when he had carefully poured the purified void salts into a receptacle they'd found above the portal. It seemed to both the vampire and the Dragonborn that it had been made for just such a purpose. Marcus could even smell the residue of Valerica's blood still in it. "That's everything," he told Serana.

"Then the rest is up to me," she said, stepping forward. "Are you ready to go? I'm not entirely sure what this thing is going to do when I add my blood."

"Can I ask you something first?" Marcus said. He supposed there could be a better time to broach this delicate subject, but he needed to know.

"Of course," Serana smiled. "What is it?"

"What will you do if we find your mother?"

Of all the questions she could have been asked, Serana hadn't prepared for that. "I don't know," she said unhappily. "I've been asking myself the same thing since we came back to the castle." She walked several paces away, and it was obvious to Marcus she was waging an internal struggle of her own. "She was so sure of what we did to my father, I couldn't help but go along with her."

"Because your mother still seemed to care about you, while your father didn't?" he asked gently.

She nodded. "I never thought of the cost," she admitted miserably.

"Children are always the ones caught in the middle when the parents have a falling out with each other," Marcus said. "Whether the parents realize it or not, they put the kids in a horrible situation of forcing them to choose between one parent or the other, and the kids feel disloyal to the parent they didn't choose. And it doesn't seem to matter how old the children get. I worked with a man once in his thirties, whose parents decided to divorce – not be married to each other anymore," he explained at her puzzled expression. Was divorce unknown here? "It was tearing him apart, and he was a grown man, that his folks made him feel like the worst son in the world for not supporting one of them over the other."

"What did he do?" she whispered.

"He talked it out with a…priest, who finally made him see that _he_ wasn't to blame for his parents splitting up. That the problem was with them, not him, and that he could still love both his mother and his father, even if they couldn't be together. And that if one of them felt he was being disloyal to them, then it was more a reflection on the kind of person _they_ were, rather than the kind of son he tried to be."

"Mother seemed convinced that my father would destroy us all," Serana said in a low voice. "She told me that if I stayed with him, he would destroy me, too."

"I don't know what she was thinking when she said that," Marcus consoled her. But in his heart he knew that some parents often used emotional blackmail to get their children to do what they wanted them to do.

"Neither do I," Serana shrugged. "She always seemed happy, before we heard the prophecy. Then it all changed. She became a different person. They both did."

"We won't know until we find her," Marcus said firmly.

"Yes!" the girl said, relieved. "Yes, you're right! I'm sorry. I just didn't expect anyone to care how I felt about her. Thank you."

"Anytime," he smiled. "And you never need to apologize for how you feel. Not to me, or to anyone. Remember that."

"Are we ready then?" she asked brightly, though the smile was a bit strained, and the shadows had not left her fiery orange eyes.

Marcus nodded. He was as ready as he would ever be – if this worked. "Let's get that portal open."

Serana nodded and turned her back. He saw her raise her wrist to her mouth, and his sensitive hearing heard the flesh tear. He smelled her blood – similar in scent to Valerica's – as it splashed into the receptacle. Suddenly the world tilted as the floor rocked under their feet and the grooved rings split open, breaking apart and reforming into floating stairs that led into a hellish, purple miasma. They could see nothing beyond the portal. There was no way of knowing, short of entering, what they would be walking into.

"By the Blood of my Ancestors!" Serana breathed. "She did it! She actually did it! She found a way into the Soul Cairn!"

"Alright, then, let's do this," Marcus said grimly, and descended the steps.

Searing pain lanced through him and he felt as though his very core was being siphoned away. Blindly, painfully, he staggered back up the stairs, feeling weaker with every step. He made it to the top and crawled some distance away from the portal, gasping, until the feeling finally subsided.

"I'm sorry!" Serana cried. "Are you alright? That looked…painful." Worry knit her brow.

"It was," Marcus said shortly. "What the hell just happened?"

"I should have expected this," the vampire girl fretted. "The Soul Cairn is…for lack of a better term…hungry. It was trying to feed on your soul."

Marcus felt a heavy weight dump itself on his shoulders. "Then we're sunk," he said, dispiritedly. "There's no way I can go in there. And I'm not so sure you should, either. Unless we can figure out safe passage somehow, our trail ends here."

"Well," Serana began, hesitantly. "Since vampires aren't really counted among the living, I could probably walk through there unharmed. I could…I could turn you into a vampire," she offered shyly. "And then you could go through it, too."

Marcus tried very hard to keep his voice neutral. "Turn _me_ into a vampire?"

"Not your first choice, I'd guess," Serana dismissed immediately, already sorry she'd brought it up. "It was just a thought."

Marcus shook his head. It was bad enough he was a werewolf. "There's got to be some other way, if we just think about it," he insisted.

"There might be," Serana said slowly, dredging up memories long buried. "The Soul Cairn is hungry for souls, so we give it one: yours."

"Wouldn't that kill me?" Marcus frowned as he stood up. This wasn't sounding any better than becoming a vampire.

"My mother taught me a few tricks," the girl sniffed loftily. "I could partially soul trap you. That way you'd still be able to go in, and the Ideal Masters get the payment they want. You'd be weaker, of course, but once we find my mother, I'm sure there would be a way to get that part of your soul back." Her eyes pleaded with him. "Just know that whatever decision you make, I won't think any less of you."

She was telling him that she wouldn't be offended if he rejected her offer of her blood, and he appreciated knowing that. It meant she trusted him enough now to make the offer.

He walked away to think things over. Becoming a vampire _would_ cure him of lycanthropy. And it might get rid of the weight of Hircine he still felt in the back of his mind. He was grateful at least that the Daedric Prince didn't see fit to constantly torment him, but he missed the calm, guiding influence of Akatosh.

On the other hand, if he became a vampire, he'd be relatively new at it, weaker than some of the creatures he would have to face down when they finally confronted Harkon. It might even put him at a disadvantage, since Harkon was so much more powerful. And did he really want to trade the torment of one Daedric Prince for another? If Hircine had gloated over his new 'toy', what might Molag Bal do? At least, as a werewolf, he had some control over when he changed, and could still function in polite society with few people knowing his secret. He wouldn't have that luxury if he became a vampire. Everyone would know then, and it would put his family further at risk.

Making his decision, he turned back to Serana.

"Well?" she asked nervously. "Have you decided?"

"Yes," he smiled, to take the sting of rejection out of his voice. "Soul trap me," he said. "I…wouldn't feel right as a vampire."

"I understand," Serana nodded, relaxing. It was at that moment he realized she'd been afraid he would take the blood.

" _The very act of…feeding…is incredibly intimate for us,"_ she had said. It would have been awkward for both of them, apparently.

"Hold still," she said now, preparing to cast the spell. "I'll try to make this as painless as possible."

"It's alright, Serana," he said bravely, smiling at her, though inside he quailed at the thought of having part of his soul ripped away from him. "I trust you."

It hurt. Not as badly as the Soul Cairn's hunger but it still hurt, and when it was done he felt weaker, as she'd said he would feel. His armor felt too heavy, like the first time he'd donned armor in Skyrim all those years ago. His swords seemed to drag at his hips, and he hoped he'd be able to wield them properly if it became necessary to do so.

"Are you alright?" Serana asked, concerned.

"I will be," he told her. There was nothing to be gained by letting her worry, and certainly no point in putting things off. "Let's go find your mother."

* * *

A half dozen figures crept furtively through the long grass towards Vilverin. Reydin had been put in charge of the diversion team, and the Bosmer lost no time in staking out the best places from which to snipe at the Thalmor wandering outside the ruins. He knew if they made a full frontal assault that it wouldn't bode well for his team. They needed to take out the Thalmor sentries quietly, so as not to arouse too much suspicion and risk having them move the Arch-Mage who knew where.

The importance of this mission was not lost on Reydin. He knew as well as his boss that having the gratitude of the Arch-Mage _and_ her very high profile husband could only bring good fortune to their Guild; a Guild which until the latest Guildmaster had taken over, had seemed to be stagnating. He had nothing against Wellsley Civette, the former Guildmaster. He had been a damned good thief; just not a particularly good businessman. And he had never had the favor of Nocturnal. No one knew why.

Wellsley had hand-picked Dante Greyshadow to be his successor, possibly because he saw potential in the young man, or possibly because the Breton was just so damned lucky. In addition, Dante had been the kind of Blade Brother that Reydin wanted at his back. He was an honest thief, if there was such a thing. If you were fortunate enough to count yourself among his handful of close friends, he passed his good fortune along to you. If you happened to get on his bad side…well, suffice to say, there were several fewer thieves in the Guild than there had been when Dante had taken over.

So it was that he never questioned his boss when he gave orders to launch small-scale skirmishes against known Thalmor outposts across the Province, or to stake out Vilverin and snipe off any straggling sentries.

"It'll be like shooting ducks in a barrel," his boss had grinned at him, and Reydin gave a smile of his own as he nodded and went to hand-pick his team.

Minnow was managing Directive 24 in each of the major cities in Cyrodiil. The girl was young, but she had a head for statistics and figures that impressed even Reydin, and he'd been around for quite a while. There was what the Guildmaster called an 'affiliated office' in each city, and Minnow knew exactly how many members worked out of each office, who they were, who the Office Heads were, who the beggar informants were in each city, and how much money each office took in every month, down to the last septim. In a way, it was rather frightening how she kept it all in her head, Reydin thought. If one of the Heads tried to embezzle, Minnow noticed it right away, and the Grey Fox took it from there. It usually only took one example for the office to settle back down and do the jobs they were supposed to do.

So it was that when the opportunity came to choose new Nightingales, Dante had spoken to both Reydin and Minnow in turn, and they gladly accepted. While the rest of the Guild wasn't aware of the 'extra duties as described' that had been shouldered onto the Bosmer and the Imperial girl, the fact that they seemed to be more in favor with the boss than ever didn't always sit well with some. Fortunately, the necessary examples were few and far between, and Minnow proved more than capable of handling herself.

Now, as the night shadows shortened, as the two moons rose overhead, Reydin gave the signal for his team to move into position to surround the ancient Ayleid ruin. There wasn't a lot of cover around here, and the fact that the old fortress sat close to the water didn't help matters, which was why one of his team members was an Argonian by the name of Gih-Ja. She never gave a family name, and no one had the temerity to ask her. There were rumors she was former Dark Brotherhood, and a Shadowscale, but no one could prove it, and Gih-Ja wouldn't talk about it. She was deadly with her blowpipe, though, and had a fondness for using poisons, and that was one reason why Reydin included her on his team.

Two other members were the Khajiit twins, Da'zhar and Da'zhir. The only way Reydin could tell them apart was the small white crescent on Da'zhir's brow, which stood out starkly against his dark, black fur. Da'zhar was the older of the two, and was proud of his "little brother" who discovered he had a rare talent for magic. Da'zhir, however, never bothered using magic where his blades would work better. But he excelled at illusion magic, and could get in and out unseen and unheard. Both were damned good with a bow, and could see in near-complete darkness, and so they had been chosen.

The last two members were an Imperial by the name of Janus Bellarius and a Nord known simply as Tharsten. Both were good at close-quarter fighting, if it came to that, and Reydin sincerely hoped it wouldn't, but he had to plan for any contingency.

The signal would be when Secunda was high overhead. She moved faster than her big brother Masser, and Reydin knew they had only another hour or less to get into position.

"And then what?" Janus asked sourly.

"And then we do what we came to do," Reydin said sharply. "Boss's orders. We create a distraction."

"Are we getting paid for this?" the Imperial grumbled. Reydin compressed his lips. Janus was sounding a lot like Garibaldi, lately. Both men seemed to be getting too used to the better, softer living they were enjoying because of the efforts of the Grey Fox.

"You're doing it because the Boss says so," the Bosmer replied sharply. "If you've got a problem with that, take it up with him."

"Alright, alright," Janus said defensively, holding up his hands. "I just asked. You can't blame a man for asking, can you?" He turned swiftly, still crouching, and slunk off into the tall grass to get to his position. Reydin frowned. He'd have to watch that one.

Silently, Reydin slipped down to the shore, using the rocks for cover, to confirm that Gih-Ja was where she should be. He saw her head bobbing just behind a sunken pillar; she saw him, too, and quietly raised her blowpipe in salute. Gih-Ja was ready, and he gave a satisfied nod.

Circling around he encountered Da'zhir first.

"This one is ready," the Khajiit grinned, moonslight reflecting off his eyes, making them glow. He had smeared charcoal over his crescent to hide it, and in the darkness, his eyes might be mistaken for a common animal. "When Little Brother Jone is overhead, this one will create sounds which are not there, and send visions of things that cannot be."

"You can do that?" Reydin asked, skeptically, eliciting a chuckle from the big cat.

"No," the Khajiit grinned. "Da'zhir is joking with you. But he _will_ be able to cause them to fight among themselves."

"That's more to my liking," Reydin nodded, patting Da'zhir's shoulder. He moved on and found Tharsten sitting quietly in the long grass, eyes on the sky overhead.

"I don't spend much time outdoors," the wiry Nord told his team leader as Reydin slid up to him. "I forget how beautiful the stars and moons are. Look at that sky! Not a cloud in it!"

"I could wish there were," Reydin murmured sourly. "We could use a bit of shadow to hide in."

"What's your worry?" Tharsten grinned, giving him a friendly punch to the shoulder. "We aren't going to be here that long."

"As long as it takes," Reydin growled. "We need to keep them occupied to give the Boss and his team time to get in, find the Arch-Mage and get out again."

"You worry too much," Tharsten grinned crookedly. To be fair, it was the only way he could smile. At some point in the past, Tharsten's nose had been broken and never properly healed, so it tilted to the left side of his face. A scar that ran down the right side of his chin made his mouth look lop-sided. It was rather unnerving, if you didn't know the man, and the lithe little Nord used it to his advantage every chance he got. "The Boss knows what he's doing. This is going to be just another in a long line of success stories we'll be telling around the fire later. You just watch."

"Perhaps," Reydin said, hoping fervently that the dark-haired Nord was right. "Have you seen Janus?"

"No," Tharsten grinned, "but isn't that the point? We aren't supposed to be seen."

"You know what I mean," Reydin scowled. "The two of you headed off this way together."

"He's somewhere over there, I think," the Nord replied cheerfully. "I'm sure he'll be ready when the time comes."

Reydin wasn't so sure, and crawled through the undergrowth to the next position he had set up. Janus should be here, but instead he found Da'zhar.

"This one is ready," the Khajiit assured him.

"What are you doing here?" Reydin hissed. "You should be over there, by that clump of bushes."

"But…the Imperial, Janus, he tells Da'zhar that Reydin says we are to switch places," the cat squinted, ears drooping. "Da'zhar did not argue, as Janus was so certain of this."

"Janus lied," the Bosmer gritted out. "I wanted _you_ over there because you're better with a bow than he is. You won't be able to hit much from this angle. Janus was supposed to sneak in from this position where he wouldn't be noticed and take them out from behind, unseen."

The Khajiit said nothing, but a low growl came from somewhere deep inside him. "Da'zhar does not like to be lied to," he finally hissed.

"Take it out of his hide later," Reydin fumed. "It's too late to switch back now. Secunda is almost overhead. I've got just enough time to make sure he's there before I have to get into position myself. Be ready. My bowshot is the signal."

"Da'zhar remembers," the Khajiit assured him, ears still laid back over Janus' duplicity. "Da'zhar _always_ remembers."

That didn't bode well for Janus, and right now Reydin didn't care. He slithered quickly to the last place on the diagram he had shown them back at the Guild headquarters, only to find no one in position. He couldn't very well call out, and any kind of life-detecting spell he might cast might be heard by the sentries prowling the ruins. It was clear to him that Janus had abandoned them to their fate, no doubt feeling he wasn't getting paid enough to risk his life against the Dominion.

Reydin began swearing softly in Bosmeri. There was no help for it. He was one man short, and there would be no time to get to his own position if he tried to find the wayward Imperial. As quickly as he could, he crawled back to Da'zhar and motioned him to follow. Together they slunk through the weeds to where the Khajiit should have been. Secunda was overhead now, and everyone would be waiting for his signal.

Grumbling to himself, Reydin pulled a potion of invisibility out of his pouch and swilled it down, moving swiftly through the grass at full speed, hoping the breeze stirring the grass would cover his path. Out of breath when he reached his position, he drew his bow, nocked an arrow, took aim and let fly, dropping to the ground immediately after. He didn't bother to confirm whether he'd hit. He knew he had when a gurgling sound and a _thump_ like a sack of potatoes being dropped came from the direction of Vilverin.

"What was that?" one of the guards cried, and Reydin downed another potion to fade into the night. Several Altmer guards in glass armor, bearing torches, rushed over to investigate the body of their fallen comrade.

"We're under attack!" one of them exclaimed.

"Don't be ridiculous," said another. "It was probably a lone bandit. Spread out. We'll flush him out of the grass."

Reydin allowed a private smile. _That's it,_ he thought, _come to me and mine. We're waiting!_

* * *

Getting into the Watchtower was just as easy as it had been the first time, except this time the Grey Fox told Cicero to "leave no witnesses." While he regretted the necessary loss of life, it improved the little Jester's mood no end.

"I would rather not do it this way," he told both men from Skyrim, "but we'll be coming back through here with any luck, and I'd like a clear path to our escape route."

"How often do they change the guards?" Argis asked.

"Every four hours," the Breton thief told them. "Which is why I've set up the initiation of this plan to commence a half hour before Secunda is at her zenith. I figured it would take us that long to clear this tower, get through the portal and find the Arch-Mage. You've both got your pack full of potions?"

They nodded, and Cicero remarked, "Yes, but just how much can one man be expected to drink in one night? Cicero is not as young as he used to be."

"Few of us are," the Guildmaster grinned. "These are pretty strong potions, though, and should last for a bit, if you don't call attention to yourselves. Let's get going."

Silently – thanks to boots that muffled their movements – Argis and Cicero followed the Grey Fox down the stairs to the next floor down. The Breton was wearing different armor from the leathers he had been wearing, with the hood thrown back, and if Cicero recognized the style as the same Brynjolf sometimes wore, he made no comment.

Two Altmer guards flanked the door which led to the portal, and the men pulled back unnoticed. The Breton thief pantomimed to them to drink their potions and take out the guards while he intended to head down to the first floor.

Cicero signed back, in the hand language of the Imperial Thieves' Guild, _"Do you want us to go in and kill the ones inside the room?"_

Blinking, the Breton Guildmaster grinned as he signed, _"Well, aren't you full of surprises? Yes, take them all out. Remain in the room, take cover and wait for me. I won't be long."_

As he headed down the stairs, the Grey Fox called upon his considerable skill in stealth to deal with the guards posted below, one by one. When he returned to the portal room, it was to find three more bodies piled against the wall, with burlap sacks thrown over them.

"You need to work on hiding bodies better," he commented wryly. "A novice in my organization could do better."

"Cicero did the best he could on short notice," the Imperial jester sniffed. "I wanted to stuff them into the barrels, but Argis didn't think we'd have time."

"Oh sure, throw _me_ under the carriage," the big Nord grumbled. "I said throw them down the loo, but you thought they'd be found too quickly."

"Fascinating conversation, gentlemen," the Grey Fox drawled, hiding a smirk, "but can we stay on target please? Are you ready to go through the portal?"

Both men with him nodded, and they crossed the room to the glowing, reddish-purple disk. Though time was pressing, the Guildmaster couldn't help taking a moment to examine the artifact. It was no more than three or four feet across, about eight inches thick, and had simply been laid on the floor. It would be easy enough to pick it up and move it to a new location, and once more his fingers itched. If he could get his hands on _both_ portals, it might make travelling between his offices so much more efficient. Better still, he might be able to stay in touch with the Guild in Skyrim more easily. It was definitely something to think about.

For now, he ran through last minute instructions with Argis and Cicero.

"I know that once we go through, we'll have to go invisible," he said. "For that reason, it's going to be very difficult to stay together. You've both examined the maps I brought back?" he confirmed.

"Yeah," Argis said. "I know exactly where I need to go. It seems to be the most likely place to hold someone you want detained."

"Good. Stealth is the key here. Don't engage with anyone you don't have to. Cicero and I will be right behind you, taking out as many of the Thalmor operatives as we can, as quickly and as quietly as we can. Hopefully that will pull away whoever may be standing guard over the Arch-Mage."

 _Hopefully,_ Argis thought sourly. He didn't like not being in the middle of the fighting, and envied Cicero his opportunity to settle old scores, but he also knew that Lady Tamsyn's safety had been entrusted to him – to Cicero as well, but Argis felt keenly that he had let both his Thane and his Lady down by allowing her to be captured. This would be his redemption.

His stomach did a flip as he stepped onto the portal after Cicero, who followed the Grey Fox. Crouching immediately, he swallowed the potion of invisibility he had been given and set off in a circuitous route to the opposite side of the room, where the corridor lay that he hoped would lead to where the Arch-Mage was being held. He pressed himself against the wall and into niches when Thalmor Justiciars and guards walked past him, holding his breath until they were gone, then continued on his way.

Reydin had told him the ruins of Vilverin had been constructed over centuries into four distinct complexes, each one built on the bones of the other. The most ancient part of the ruins were known as Vilverin Sel Sancremathi, but Argis didn't think he'd have to go that far to find Lady Tamsyn. There didn't seem to be anything on the map resembling holding cells in that section. The most likely part was the third complex, Vilverin Wendesel.

It didn't mean he wasn't going to look in every nook and cranny to find Lady Tamsyn, though. And if the Thalmor got in his way, he'd make sure they didn't live long enough to regret it.

Cicero and the Grey Fox hung back, keeping far enough behind Argis – they hoped, since they couldn't see him – to eliminate any Altmer obstacles for their return trip out. Just the fact that several of the Thalmor operatives continued towards them was a good indication they hadn't seen the big Nord, or sensed his presence.

This was good, Dante thought, because the Nord was really the one weak spot in the whole plan. He couldn't hide, couldn't sneak, and would be handicapped by possibly having to carry the Arch-Mage on the way out. Dante knew the Dominion's techniques for interrogation, and the toll it took on its 'guests.' As long as Argis continued to drink the invisibility potions, they just might make it through this damnable place in one piece.

The corridors were easier than the open rooms. They were wide enough to allow two or three people to walk abreast, sometimes wider, and with niches in the walls every so often, it was easy enough to fall back into the shadows and wait for a guard to pass, then take them out from behind.

" _Cicero is wondering where we will hide these bodies,"_ the little Imperial signed once when they had finished a scuffle with three guards.

The Grey Fox looked around, eyes searching and finding what he was looking for. _"There,"_ he pointed _. "A hidden chamber. Stand on that tile there to open the door."_

And so it went, chamber by chamber. Whenever Argis' potion wore off, he would pull back into the shadows and crouch, waiting for Cicero and the Guildmaster to sneak into the next hall and clear it of hostiles, hiding the bodies as best they could. Along the way, the Grey Fox lost no opportunity to loot the place of any valuables, especially if it was documents, journals or maps.

In this manner they made their way through the first complex of Vilverin and into the second, noted on the map they had as Vilverin Canosel.

"I thought these places were supposed to be full of traps," Argis whispered at one point, when they paused to get their bearings.

"No doubt the Dominion had them removed when they planned to use this place as a headquarters," the Grey Fox said. "Count yourselves lucky. This would be a lot harder if they left them in place."

"Cicero is also grateful we have not encountered the spirits of the dead, said to haunt places like these," the jester shuddered.

The Guildmaster nodded. "Again, I think whatever may have been here at one time has long since been dealt with, or the Thalmor wouldn't be so at ease, walking around here."

They continued through the Canosel and into the Wendesel. There were many more Thalmor here, both Justiciars and guards, and Cicero narrowly missed falling into a pit trap the Thalmor had not tampered with. Clearly, they knew it was there and avoided it. There were at least a dozen guards in this room, and the Grey Fox sprinted to the far end to cut off any of them running to alert the rest of the complex or bring in reinforcements. A fierce firefight ensued; the Thalmor had magic, and they used it. The Guildmaster, however, was a Breton, and had an inborn resistance to the magic. It still hurt like Oblivion, though, when they all seemed to gang up on him.

He called upon his years of experience in being unseen then, and crouched in plain sight. Surprisingly, some of the guards further away began looking wildly around.

"He was just here!" one exclaimed. "Where did he go?"

"You idiot!" a robed Justiciar replied scathingly. "How could you let him get away?"

Meanwhile, at the other end of the room, Argis and Cicero were tearing through the ranks lined up against them. Cicero dodged several spells aimed at him, while Argis simply powered through them.

"I'm gonna cut you in half!" he roared, and three of the gold-clad Altmer gulped and ran past him, back the way they had come. Argis chased after them, knowing they couldn't be allowed to escape.

"Cicero thinks you really don't want to kill him," the little jester remarked casually, swapping Stabby and Pokey from hand to hand. Unbelievably, he began to juggle them, their ebony and dragon bone blades glinting in the white light of the Varla stones around the hall. The two guards facing him eyed him warily, stealing glances at each other uncertainly.

"You see, we only came here for something you took from us," the Imperial continued, conversationally. "Someone very dear to Cicero's heart. And we simply must have her back."

The two Altmer seemed almost mesmerized by the flashing blades; so much so, that they didn't realize until the pain struck them that each blade had deftly been flicked straight at them. One struck the male guard between the eyes, and the female found the other lodged in her throat. They sank to the ground as the blood pooled around them. Cicero retrieved his blades and carefully wiped them on the cloth lining of the Altmer armor, protruding from one cuirass.

"Must keep my blades clean," he hummed happily. "A dirty blade is a dull blade!" He looked up to see four other Altmer at the far end, heading in his direction. As he prepared himself to face them down alone – just _where_ had dear Argis gotten himself to? – one of the Justiciars behind the other three sank to the floor and lay still. Cicero was very impressed. He hadn't even seen the Guildmaster make the cut.

"That takes care of them," Argis rumbled behind him, and Cicero relaxed, confident once more. Another Justiciar fell, leaving just two guards, one of whom conjured an ethereal blade with which to fight.

"Oh ho ho!" Cicero crowed. "Cicero will see your twenty-four inches of smoke and raise you by twelve more inches of steel. Argis?" he cocked an eyebrow back to his lover. "Would you care to do the honors?"

"My pleasure," the big Nord grinned.

It was a short fight.

"Did any get away?" Cicero asked the Guildmaster, concerned, as a healing spell flared from the Breton's hands.

"No," came the short reply. "I held the doorway. No one got past me. Argis?"

"Ain't nobody back there gonna carry tales," the Housecarl grunted. "I even found a couple we missed. How much farther do you think we need to go?"

The Grey Fox took out his map and consulted it. "The hallway out of this room ends in a T-intersection," he showed them. "To the right is another large chamber. We'll need to make sure it's cleared before we can go left to this large area with the holding cells. This is where I think your Arch-Mage is being kept."

"And what about the rest of the ruin?" Argis asked. "Do we have to go through it to get out of here?"

"I'm not sure," the Breton thief admitted. "I'm hoping we can just get back out the way we came. By now, Reydin and his team will have engaged the sentries outside. If we're lucky, they'll be able to take them out. If we're not, they'll be heading back in here looking for reinforcements."

"Then we'll kill them like we have the others!" Cicero said menacingly.

"Easy for you to say," the Grey Fox grimaced. "These last few were tougher than the inexperienced grunts above. We're getting into the core of this complex, gentlemen. Let's take nothing for granted. We need fewer scuffles like this if we're to rescue your Arch-Mage alive. Let's get moving. If any of them catch us loitering here, they can get to her and kill her before we can stop them."

"That means—" Cicero began.

"I know, I know," Argis sighed tiredly. "Drink another invisibility potion. Do you think next time you could put some flavoring in it? This crap tastes like chalk!"

* * *

For probably a quarter of an hour or so, Reydin and his team successfully picked off Dominion targets one by one. Those who ventured into the grass didn't come out of it. Gih-Ja was able to paralyze several – if she didn't outright kill them with her toxins – before they could come out to join the others, and one of the Khajiit brothers would finish them off with long-ranged shots. Reydin and Tharsten concentrated on intercepting the ones brave enough to risk the tall grass before they could find the archers, but it would have been much easier to do if Janus had been where he was supposed to have been, and once more Reydin cursed in Bosmeri under his breath.

Suddenly, a horn was blown, and all the Altmer retreated to the ruins. There were, Reydin was satisfied to see, only a handful or so of them left. However, they seemed to have gotten someone with brains to band them together, as a shimmering shield of energy bloomed around them, intercepting incoming blowdarts and arrows.

"Damn them!" Reydin swore. The only thing they could do at this point would be to wait for one of them to run out of magicka and grab the opportunity to sneak attack from long range, if they could. There was no way to pass this message along to his team, however. He had hand-picked them for their abilities and their intelligence. He hoped they had the presence of mind to hold off wasting arrows until the opportune moment.

A reddish glow lit up the area behind the ruin, from Reydin's point of view. The breeze was coming from behind him, carrying sounds and scents away from him, and it was several moments before he realize with horror that one of the Justiciars had lit the grass on fire, and the wind was carrying it towards Da'zhir and Tharsten!

"No!" he cried, standing up. Immediately, ice spikes headed his way and he dodged them, tumbling to one side. "Pull back!" he shouted, hoping Gih-Ja and Da'zhar heard him. More ice spikes followed, as well as another fireball, which thankfully landed behind him. He made it to the beach and dove head-first into Lake Rumare, swimming underwater until he felt his lungs would burst. At last, he was forced to come up for air. Shaking the water out of his eyes, he turned back, treading water. The entire night sky was lit up northeast of the Imperial City as the grass around Vilverin burned. Grimly, Reydin hoped his team managed to escape, but hoped even more that the Thalmor would be caught in a trap of their own making.

Something moved in the water near him, and for the space of a few heartbeats, he panicked. Slaughterfish were still a problem in the lake. But a head that belonged to no slaughterfish surfaced, and Gih-Ja blew out a breath.

"That did not go well," she commented sourly.

"Did the others make it out?" Reydin demanded. "Could you see any of them?"

"No," the Argonian said placidly, shaking her head. "I only saw you go into the water. I do not know if any of the others escaped. It is possible Da'zhar made it safely away, but I do not think he would swim the lake to get away. Khajiits do not like open water."

Reydin said nothing, but his thoughts were dark.

"What do we do now?" Gih-Ja asked. She didn't seem concerned that they had potentially lost over half their number, but that was just her way. She seldom showed emotion. The Boss, however, wouldn't be pleased at all.

"We meet back at the Guild," he told her, striking out for the island and the tunnel that would lead them back to headquarters. "Let's hope the others make it back, too."

"And if they do not?"

"Then the Dominion will have just one more black mark against them," the Bosmer thief intoned.

* * *

The large chamber to their right was empty, and Argis breathed a sigh of relief. Fighting Thalmor was all very well and good, but the longer time they spent here, the worse chance there would be of someone getting away and raising an alarm.

The three men crept quietly toward the vast hall on the left. From their vantage-point near the open doorway, they could see several tables and chairs set up, covered with paperwork and artifacts. Argis could see three separate holding cells on the far wall, and he could only assume there were at least another three on their side, sharing the wall of the entryway.

There were probably two dozen Thalmor here, too, most of them Justiciars, and that meant spell-casters. Being a Nord, Argis didn't trust magic very much. He didn't mind that Lady Tamsyn used it exclusively in combat, he was just glad he was on her side. Three men against twenty or so Altmer spell-casters didn't sound like very good odds to him. And how were they going to determine which cell held the Arch-Mage?

The Grey Fox waved them back to the chamber at the far end of the hallway, out of range of hearing.

"This is it, gentlemen," he told them. "I'm confident your Arch-Mage is being held in one of those cells."

"How can you know that?" Argis demanded, frustrated.

"Firstly, because it's the most likely place for her to be," the Guildmaster said seriously. "Second, because that masked Thalmor Justiciar had her brought to this place through the portal we all took to get here; and I heard some of the guards commenting on it during my first trip here."

"What if they moved her between then and now?" Cicero worried.

"Possible, but not likely," the Guildmaster assured him. "I _am_ a Breton after all, and while I don't use it much, I _do_ know some magic. I could cast a Clairvoyance spell that would probably lead us right to her, but doing so would alert every Justiciar in that room."

"So what's your plan?" Argis grumbled.

"First of all, I want the two of you to stay in this area; wait in the hallway back by the pit trap room. Stop any Thalmor that tries to leave. If they try to come into this room, let them. They can't go anywhere else. One of you can sneak in and take them out, if you like."

"What will you be doing?" Cicero asked, narrowing his eyes speculatively.

"I'm going to see exactly what we're up against, and try to find out which of these cells is holding the Arch-Mage," the Grey Fox smirked, crouching. "Trust me, they'll never know I was there."

And indeed, he seemed to vanish right in front of their eyes. They never heard him leave.

"Cicero doesn't like this one bit," the Imperial jester groused. "We should go in there and kill every last Thalmor!"

"How is that going to help Lady Tamsyn if you get yourself killed, Cis?" Argis asked, a thrill of fear lancing through him. "I…I don't want to lose you, now."

It was the right thing to say, Argis realized, as his lover relaxed and patted his cheek. "Alright, dear boy," Cicero smiled. "We'll do this your way, and _his._ We'll wait to see what he can learn. Pay no attention to me. I'm just very worried at how long this is taking."

"We can't rush this, Cis," Argis insisted. "He hasn't led us wrong yet. Besides, think of all the Thalmor we've killed today!"

The jester chuckled. There was that. "Perhaps before this is over, we can add a few more?" he asked hopefully.

* * *

Cloaked in shadows, Dante slid into the chamber and quickly worked his way around the room. Once upon a time, the doors to the cells had been made of stone, and slid into place, but those had long since been removed in favor of stout, iron-clad wooden doors. It was impossible to see into them, to know what was held within, but that didn't bother him as much as how he, Cicero and Argis were going to handle that many Thalmor operatives on their own.

He glided over to the tables, seeing charts, schematics, maps, tomes and scrolls. One parchment, held down by welkynd stones, caught his eye. _Legendary Dispel?_ he read. He'd never heard of such a spell. Scanning the page quickly, he glanced around before swiping it off the table and stuffing it into the front of his armor.

"What was that?" one of the Justiciars said suddenly, turning around. Dante crouched and waited, and after a moment the Altmer turned back to his book. "It was nothing," he muttered. "Cursed place gives me the jitters."

Moving silently to the far end of the room, Dante crept closer to a cluster of Thalmor milling around one of the cell doors.

"—telling you I think we need to proceed with more…guaranteed forms of extracting information," one of them, a female, said. "It's clear that Justiciar Telperion isn't as good as she claims to be."

"You can tell her that, then," one of the males shuddered. "I've seen what she does to people who…displease her."

"The Dominion has run out of patience," the woman said, indifferent. "Whatever the Arch-Mage knows, she's clearly more than capable of withstanding Telperion's methods. I don't think the Justiciar is trying hard enough. Let me have the Arch-Mage for a few hours, and she will be begging to confess to childhood transgressions, real or imagined."

"Don't speak for the Dominion, Faniera," another male warned. "You aren't as important within the Order as you seem to think you are."

"Mind your words, Gillane," Faniera shot back. "I'll have you know the First Emissary has already recommended me to the Grand Council back in Alinor."

"Only to get you out of his way," Gillane sneered.

"That's enough, you two," said another woman, just coming up to them. "Don't you all have someplace else to be? And you, Faniera," here she glared at the first Altmer woman to speak. "You should have taken that report back the Embassy an hour ago. Get moving."

"Yes, Emissary," Faniera sulked, turning and retreating to a cell door directly across from them. She opened it, and Dante saw her step onto another portal platform before the door closed.

So, they had another portal that went directly back to the Dominion Embassy? _Interesting. Very interesting._ He couldn't stay long to ponder this, however. Time was running out on Nocturnal's blessing.

An open archway just beyond led off to his left. He knew, from his study of the map, that there was at least one more chamber before a series of corridors and flights of stairs led to the next lower level down, Vilverin Sel Sancremathi.

Justiciars passed him as he crouched and made his way along the corridor, only one or two pausing briefly, as if sensing something else there. Shrugging and moving on, they either passed him on their way back to the cell room, or moved ahead of him to the chamber he made his way towards.

This chamber was brightly illuminated by the largest Varla stone Dante had ever seen, and he nearly wept with greed. There weren't as many Thalmor here, and he breathed a sigh of relief. It would seem that the bulk of them were back in the cell room. Most of the Altmer here appeared to be standing around, guarding something, but for the life of him he couldn't see anything to guard, unless it was the Varla stone. But who would be foolish enough to attempt to fight their way through an entire Ayleid ruin filled with Thalmor soldiers and Justiciars just to steal a Varla stone – even one that size?

 _Don't answer that one, Dante,_ he warned himself.

Across the chamber, to his left, he could see a balcony area that overlooked the main floor, and there were several more gleaming gold and green figures up there as well. A doorway at the far end seemed to exit to a passage that curved that way, probably to a flight of stairs leading up.

As he reached the corridor, his time under Nocturnal's influence ran out, and from here on he knew he would have to rely upon his own considerable skills in stealth. The guards on the balcony never saw or heard him as he crept past them to the corridor that curved away behind them. It led down another flight of stairs to a locked door.

 _Locked?_ That was strange, he thought. _Why would the Dominion lock a door to an entire level of a ruin they were occupying?_ He shrugged. There wasn't a lock in the world he couldn't pick.

Except this one. Struggle as he did, his unbreakable picks couldn't get the door open. He put his ear against the door to listen, and only then did he feel the faint _thrum_ of magic that seemed to emanate from the iron-clad oak. Dante began to swear softly. Magic. It was sealed with magic. How was that even possible?

He knew the answer. It was the reason the Arch-Mage had come to the Imperial City in the first place, or so Cicero had told him. She had suspected the Thalmor of hiding away magic, and now he could see her suspicions were confirmed. Though he didn't use magic much himself, he dealt – as a simple man of business – with many who did. There were even a few members of his Guild who dabbled in magic. But in all his associations with those who could perform magic, he had never heard of anyone powerful enough to seal a door.

Dante blew out a breath of frustration. If the Thalmor had sealed it, they were either keeping something out, or keeping something in. Perhaps this was where they were storing the powerful magical artifacts they had accused the College of Winterhold of hoarding. Greed reared her lovely head again, and Dante felt his fingers itch once more.

Calling up everything he knew about magic, he examined the door more closely once more. This time, he concentrated on determining what kind of magic had been used to seal it. It certainly wasn't Destruction; had it been some kind of elemental rune, it would already have gone off when he tried to pick the lock. It wasn't Illusion. His own Guild members were far too adept at Illusion for him not to recognize it when he saw it.

Conjuration and Alteration were out, as well. He knew what those kinds of magic felt like all too well. No, it was a combination of Restoration, which surprised him, and something else. An older type of magic he had never encountered before. There was a Warding spell placed here, that much he could feel, and a very powerful one at that.

 _What are they keeping in there?_ he wondered again. _Or perhaps the better question is: what are they keeping out of the rest of the ruins?_

"Only one way to find out," he muttered, crouching once more. From the front of his cuirass, he pulled the scroll he'd found not long before and smoothed it out. He studied it for several minutes, mouthing the unfamiliar words to be sure he would pronounce them properly when spoken. If this scroll did what he thought it would do, he didn't want to make a mistake and disenchant his armor and weapons by mistake.

 _That would be bad,_ he grimaced to himself. _That would be very bad._ Nocturnal herself had given him one of her bows, and the ebony sword he carried, that he had named Inferno, had the strongest enchantments of fire damage and soul trapping he could buy. He would really hate to lose them.

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Dante moved back a few paces, to the bottom of the steps, and quietly spoke the words on the scroll. A flash lit up the stairwell, and a sound like stone cracking echoed through the chamber behind him. Sudden, panicked voices called out above. The door flew open on its hinges, and the darkness poured out.

 _Oh crap,_ he thought. _I hope this works._

* * *

The only thing left in Tamsyn's mind was _resist._ She had no awareness of the passing of time anymore. There was either pain when the Justiciar was present, or the absence of it when she was not. She was present now, and had been for some time. Since the last breakthrough into the Thalmor's mind, Tamsyn had been unable to breach it again. That there was a great secret Justiciar Telperion hid from her own people, Tamsyn had no doubt, but she couldn't take the time or energy it required to ponder it. Every conscious moment was spent either in resisting pain or recovering from it.

There were several techniques Tamsyn could use to retreat from the pain, and she had used most of them. She practiced mathematical calculations in her mind; she thought of the people of Skyrim she had helped; she thought of the children she and Marcus were raising together; she only thought of songs she had heard since coming to Skyrim, and repeated "Ragnar the Red" until she was sure the Justiciar would actually physically assault her. She couldn't blame the woman for that. "Ragnar the Red" was one of the most annoying songs she'd ever heard.

She kept her mind well away from thoughts of her former life in Gaea, and from any of their ongoing plans against the Dominion, locking them away from the Justiciar's attempts to intrude.

"Come now," Justiciar Telperion insisted. "You must be exhausted by now. Just tell me what I want to know and you'll be allowed to sleep for a little bit. That's reasonable, don't you think?"

"Reasonable would be admitting you made a mistake and letting me go," Tamsyn whispered, too tired to attempt to speak louder.

"I? Make a mistake?" the Thalmor echoed, as if the thought was inconceivable. "I can assure you there is no mistake," she went on. "I knew it the moment I saw you in the carriage. Here was my one opportunity, I thought, and I mustn't let it get away. I suspected there was something different about you then, when I couldn't probe your thoughts. Your Nord friend was too far away, on top of the carriage, and that creepy little Imperial with you was clearly a tool of Sithis. I had no desire to probe his sordid little mind, I assure you."

 _Argis was too far away?_ Tamsyn thought privately. _But I was further away in the Orrery._ She said as much out loud, and there was a note of satisfaction in the Thalmor's voice.

"Yes, but I could see you," she remarked, confirming Tamsyn's suspicions that the woman needed line-of-sight for her probing to work. "And even then you gave me a nasty little smack." As if to emphasize her pique, she sent a similar psychic slap to Tamsyn, who jerked in her restraints.

"Where are my things?" Tamsyn asked, not really expecting an answer. It was merely something to think about, to avoid thinking of other, more sensitive things.

"Here in a chest," the Thalmor said dismissively. "Except for your staff, of course. That's no great hardship for you, I'm sure. As Arch-Mage, you hardly need a staff to do your magic for you. And one that summons a Daedra to fight for you…well, that's hardly sporting, don't you think?"

Tamsyn desperately wanted to ask about her Ring of Flying, but didn't dare press the issue. The loss of the Sanguine Rose was a heavy blow, too. She wondered if she would ever see it again.

"I think we'll do some mental obstacle courses now," Justiciar Telperion mused out loud, and Tamsyn quailed inside. This was a series of a barrage of random thoughts, designed to trip her up and weaken her defenses against a sudden attack. She never knew when the attack would come. "As I'm sure you're well aware, this is a demanding—"

She broke off as the noise level beyond the door escalated. Voices raised in fear and alarm increased in volume, and the explosive sounds of magic being cast escalated. The Justiciar went to the door and opened it just far enough to peer out. Tamsyn turned her head and saw shadows of inky blackness roil past her viewpoint, just before the Justiciar closed the door again.

The Thalmor woman came over to her and began unfastening the restraints holding her feet immobile.

"What's going on?" Tamsyn muttered. "Why are you freeing me?"

"The Old Ones have escaped," the Justiciar said, and it was obvious she was concerned, as her voice trembled slightly. "I don't know how it happened. They put the strongest wards on that door they could possibly create."

"Old Ones?" Tamsyn echoed. "Who or what are they?" She wished she could have kicked the Thalmor woman as her hands were being freed, but she simply didn't have the strength.

"Ancient undead spirits who dwelled in this ruin before my Order took it over," the elf woman explained, lifting Tamsyn to a sitting position. "We're safe for the moment, but if they can't stop them out there, the Old Ones will not rest until they've killed every living thing in this ruin. Ancient magicks keep them here, or they would be loosed across Cyrodiil, but my…superiors…assured us all they had contained them within the Sancremathi. Clearly, they were fooling themselves. Can you stand up?"

"Why are you doing this?" Tamsyn demanded, and it would have been much more impressive if it had come out with some force. As it was, it sounded more like a whining child.

"Saving you, you mean?" the Justiciar asked. At Tamsyn's nod, she made a dismissive gesture. "You're too valuable a prisoner to be left to die here. I know what Faniera and some of the others would do, if you were in their charge, but you're mine, and I intend to keep you intact. At least until I learn what you're hiding from me."

"Aren't you afraid I'll beat the crap out of you?" Tamsyn rallied weakly.

"In that condition?" The pale blue eyes raked her up and down. "Please, child, don't make me laugh. Right now, you couldn't harm a butterfly."

 _That's where you'd be wrong!_ Tamsyn thought with some fervor, as she launched the strongest paralyzation spell she knew at her captor, with only one slight gesture of her hand. The look of shock in those ice-blue eyes was well worth the sudden wave of faintness that came over her as the Thalmor Justiciar toppled over.

Glancing around the room swiftly, Tamsyn found the chest with her belongings and staggered over to open it, removing the belt from her Arch-Mage's robe before pulling it over her head. She secured the Thalmor's hands behind her back just as Cicero burst into the room.

"Cicero is here, pretty Tamsyn!" he cried. "He is here to rescue – oh, you look like you're doing alright." He gave her a disgruntled look.

"Cicero!" Tamsyn exclaimed in delight. She threw herself at him and hugged him tightly. "Where's Argis?"

"Out there, sweetling," he cooed, throwing his head back over his shoulder. "Such lovely stabbing and slashing we've been doing!" He giggled.

"But what about those wraith things?" Tamsyn asked in alarm.

"Oh, the nasty Thalmor are fighting them, and dear Argis and the Grey Fox are also fighting them, and they told Cicero to come and get you out of here—"

"Wait," Tamsyn said, pulling back. "Wait a minute. The Grey Fox?" She frowned, perplexed. She knew who the Grey Fox had been, of course, but he had lived two hundred years ago, during the Oblivion Crisis.

"Oh yes!" Cicero said gleefully. "Cicero called in some favors, only now it looks like it will be Cicero who owes the favor. Oh, and he has a job to do before we leave Cyrodiil…"

"Cicero, stop!" Tamsyn pleaded, putting a hand to her head, which was beginning to ache. "You're not making any sense. Go back out there and help Argis and this Grey Fox, if that's who he really is. I'm fine right now, and I need to keep watch over her." She pointed to Justiciar Telperion, still paralyzed on the ground.

Cicero's eyes narrowed, and his lip curled in fury. "Hateful Thalmor bitch!" he snarled, drawing his daggers. _"CICERO WILL SEND YOUR SOUL TO SITHIS!"_ He moved past Tamsyn to leap onto the helpless elf.

"NO, CICERO, _STOP!"_ Tamsyn thundered angrily. To her surprise, he actually listened to her, though he trembled with repressed rage. "I need her alive, Cicero. She wanted answers from me. Well, now I want answers from her."

She stepped over and crouched next to the prone woman. "And the first thing I want to know is, what are you hiding behind this mask?"

Panicked, pale blue eyes pleaded wordlessly, but to no avail. Tamsyn reached out and pulled off the finely-tooled leather mask.

"Sithis!" Cicero exclaimed.

"Holy Toledo!" Tamsyn whispered.

* * *

 _[Author's Note: The tables have well and truly turned now. The captor is now the prisoner, and it's certain she can expect better treatment than she gave. Though Tamsyn may have to ride herd on Cicero to keep him from "accidentally" slitting the Justiciar's throat. How will this change things? Tamsyn also gets to meet the master-mind behind her daring rescue, and it might just be that some new alliances could be formed._

 _Next up, Marcus and Serana (finally) get through the Soul Cairn to find Valerica and recover the Elder Scroll. I meant to include it in this chapter, but it was taken out of my hands by a thieving Breton who stole the spotlight. Thanks for staying with me!]_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

An eerie purple pall lay over the landscape, which was as desolate as anything Marcus had ever seen. Here and there, in the distance, he could see structures of some kind, but what purpose they served was a mystery that for once, he had no desire to unravel.

He and Serana descended the steps into this hellish realm and tried to get their bearings, but there was no sense of direction to be found here. It was rather like standing at a magnetic pole, where all directions were the same. The only thing that could be determined with any certainty was that the portal opened at one side of the Soul Cairn; everything else spread out before them from this point. Attempting to travel 'behind' the area of the portal was prevented by some sort of energy barrier that shimmered in blue waves, stretching in either direction. A path led before them into the distance from the bottom of the stairs, but Marcus couldn't imagine why such a path existed. Did the souls trapped here need roads?

Here and there, Marcus saw paler flashes of an absence of color; there was some sort of fungus that sprouted in conical trumpets amid the brambles. Other than that, scrag trees were the only form of vegetation. Piles of bones and skulls lay in heaps everywhere, from human-sized to the gigantic skeletons of dragons, half-buried in the ground.

To their right, as they proceeded along the path, a large black stone edifice rose. The doorway was blocked by iron bars and flanked on either side by structures resembling the standing stones he had first seen after escaping Helgen on his first day in Skyrim. Each standing stone was surmounted with a glowing blue-green orb situated high above their heads.

A ghostly figure of a woman stood nearby. She was wearing scaled armor with a pauldron on one shoulder, and carried a steel longsword and hide shield.

"Who or what is that?" Marcus asked Serana.

"A soul," she replied. "Trapped here by the Ideal Masters."

"Can we talk to her?" he queried.

"I suppose," Serana shrugged. "But don't expect much. Some of them don't realize they're dead, and others…well, I suppose it would depend on how strong a person they were in life."

Figuring he had nothing to lose by trying, Marcus approached the soul.

"Excuse me," he began, "can you tell me what this building is?"

"No," she replied. "I'm not even sure how I got here. Last thing I remember was the captain giving the order to charge. I…guess we didn't make it."

"Is there anyone who can tell me?" Marcus asked.

"I don't know," she replied, looking vaguely around. "Does the sky look right to you?"

Marcus looked up. Now he could see the miasma swirling upwards, like a slow, sentient vortex, being absorbed into a dark sky overhead. Such was the thickness of the miasma, and the smallness of the revealed sky, that it had the effect of a gigantic eye staring, unblinking, down upon them, and Marcus gave an involuntary shudder. It seemed the Ideal Masters were watching their every move.

Wrenching his gaze from the unnerving sight, Marcus turned his attention back to the building. If Valerica had somehow made her way to this nightmarish place, she might be hiding out in one of these buildings, and that meant they would have to explore each one. But how to get in remained the question.

"Any ideas?" he asked Serana.

She studied the building. "Well, there must be some sort of lever or keyhole or something that will bring the bars down."

"Wait," Marcus said, suddenly inspired by the sight of a simple longbow and iron arrows nearby. He wasn't sure how they had gotten here. He had thought this place would be a vast open area with souls floating about, not a desert landscape with actual physical features. "What if I hit that glowing orb up there with one of these arrows?"

Serana considered. "That's as good a guess as any, I suppose. Give it a shot." She grinned at her own joke.

Marcus had been practicing his archery over the last several months and now felt fairly confident in his abilities. The medium-range shot wasn't all that difficult, and he hit first one glowing orb, then the other in rapid succession. The iron bars lowered.

"Not bad," Serana approved.

"I can't split an arrow yet, but I'll get there," he grinned.

"Why would you want to split an arrow _with_ an arrow?" Serana asked. "That seems like a waste to me."

"It's a way of proving you can hit the same spot each time," he explained. "A legendary hero where I come from, a man named Robin Hood, was said to have done it."

"Really?" Serana said doubtfully. "You'll have to tell me more about this legendary figure."

"Some other time," Marcus promised with a smile. "Right now, let's concentrate on finding your mother."

"Right," she chirped happily.

Valerica wasn't in the building, but they did find some empty soul gems and an enchanted dagger in a locked chest. Lying on the ground next to the chest was a bit of parchment, and Marcus picked it up.

"… _remember. In the end, seventy-six cliff racers were slaughtered,"_ Marcus read aloud _. "I was knee-deep in their corpses and my body on the verge of collapse. But I had survived. I smiled to the heavens and all went black…When I awoke, all I felt was my back on a cold stone floor. Every muscle in my body was on fire, and my vision was blurred. Slowly, I tried to climb to my feet. It took several agonizing…"_

"Several agonizing what?" Serana asked.

"I don't know," Marcus shrugged. "That's all there is. It looks like part of a larger work of fiction."

"Well, anyway, Mother's not here," Serana sighed. "We should keep moving. Where to next?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "Let's head down this road a bit and try to get some bearings."

They hadn't gone far, however, before a clattering of bones alerted them. The calcified remains shifted as two black skeletons rose from the pile.

"Where did _you_ come from?" Serana demanded, immediately shooting out her ice spikes. Marcus drew Alduin's Bane and its partner, the Akaviri blade called Dragonbane and laid into the closest skeleton. He expected them to go down quickly, but the black skeletons of the Soul Cairn seemed to be made of sterner stuff, and it was several minutes before all was eerily quiet once more.

"That was not as easy as I thought it would be," he admitted to Serana afterwards. He was breathing more heavily than he liked. Serana had been correct when she warned him he would be weaker. "Those weren't just ordinary skeletons."

"No," Serana confirmed. "Mother told me once that the Ideal Masters have denizens here to torment the souls that wind up in this place. Those were bonemen. There are also wrathmen, who are tougher and wear armor, and mistmen, who cast spells."

"Anything else you know of that we might encounter while we're here?" Marcus asked. "Any little bit of information you have might help."

"I'm sorry," the vampire girl said. "That's really all I know." She gave a shudder. "Just look at this place! Mother must have been terrified to come here!"

There was nothing Marcus could say to that, so they pressed on. More bonemen attacked them as they approached another large structure, but this one at least was open. It was another tough fight, and Marcus felt winded when they were done. There was no doubt about it; the soul-trapping was having a huge impact on him. Inside the building they found another chest with some minor objects, including a few more empty soul gems, and other bit of parchment with more writing on it, that seemed to be part of the first one Marcus had found, since it referenced the cliff-racers.

"What are cliff-racers?" he asked Serana. He'd never heard of them before.

"If I remember correctly, they're very large, very aggressive flying lizards – not dragons," she added quickly. "They're native to Morrowind, I believe. I read about them, long ago, but I've never seen one."

She gave him a keen look. "Are you okay? You look tired."

"I am tired," he admitted. "But I'll be alright. We should keep moving. Let's look over that way," he suggested, pointing to their right. "I see a large building over there."

They crossed the rugged terrain, stumbling over hidden bones and skulls just beneath the surface, and fighting their way through unexpected brambles. At one point they had to cross a fissure which hissed like gas leaking from a main line.

"A soul fissure!" Serana said. "Mother told me about these, too. You can fill an empty soul gem from it."

"Whose soul?" Marcus asked.

"Does it matter?" the girl inquired, perplexed.

"Yes," Marcus growled. "It does." He pushed on towards the building without taking advantage of the fissure. Serana looked after him, puzzled, but eventually shrugged and jogged after him to keep up.

From the top of the building he had a clearer view of the Soul Cairn, and it wasn't looking any better than it did from ground level. He was able to locate a few more buildings to explore, however, and there seemed to be some sort of wall dividing the Cairn across the middle. From this distance, however, it was impossible to tell what lay beyond the wall.

Since directions were impossible to determine, they decided to explore to the left of the road that initiated at the portal and seemed to head toward the wall. When they were satisfied Valerica was not among the structures there, they headed back to clear the right side. Marcus found a few more pages to the lost book.

One of the souls begged him to find his horse, Arvak, but was too distracted to be of much help in stating where they should start looking. Serana was more concerned about finding her mother.

"Well she's not anywhere around here," Serana complained. "All we've found so far are lost souls and undead."

"Let's go see what's beyond the wall," Marcus suggested. "There's got to be more to the Soul Cairn than this."

The wall stretched as far as they could see in either direction, even penetrating beyond the blue barrier that kept Marcus and Serana from going any further, though they could clearly see more terrain beyond.

"What if your mother is on the other side of this barrier?" Marcus wondered out loud. It seemed to stretch out in either direction forever, and was impossibly high. They'd never get over it, even if they had a way to climb it.

"I don't think so," Serana said with more confidence than she felt. "She used her own blood to gain access to this place, so I think we'll find her here somewhere."

"I hope you're right," Marcus replied, pushing at it with his hands. It felt as solid as stone. "Because I have no idea how we'd get through this."

They found a flight of stairs that led to a gap in the wall, and made their way up and over. The scenery looked pretty much like the other side, except huge bolts of lightning crashed down frequently, as if the Ideal Masters were taking pot-shots at the souls below. The smell of ozone permeated the air, and Marcus fervently hoped he wouldn't get hit.

There was an enormous structure to their right as they passed through the wall and they made for it. In front of the large building was another soul in front of a ruined cart. Barrels lined the front of the building, and lying on top was another bit of parchment that Marcus was beginning to recognize. He was also becoming more curious about the complete book, which he was now certain had been scattered across the landscape.

The soul watched him carefully as he examined the structure and saw that entrance was blocked by the now-familiar bars. But this time, Marcus knew what to do, though one of the shots was a bit more difficult than before. Still, it was inevitable, and the gates were lowered.

"Nice shooting," the soul commented.

Marcus looked around. Serana was poking through the cart not far away. The soul was still observing him carefully. Unlike the few others he had seen, this one seemed to be taking an interest in what the two of them were doing.

"Thanks," Marcus said. "Who are you?"

"A better question would be who _was_ I?" the soul said dourly. "I am… _was_ …Morven Stroud, master merchant, at your service. I carry the finest wares from High Rock to Elsweyr, Hammerfell to Morrowind, and all points in between. Or at least..I did."

"What happened, if you don't mind my asking," Marcus inquired.

Morven shrugged. "Oh, I had a little mishap with some necromancers I was trading with. I brought them less-than-quality ingredients – not intentionally, mind you – and they took my soul in payment." He scowled. "I was an honest merchant!" he insisted. "How was I to know those ingredients were fake?"

"Sorry to hear that," Marcus commiserated. "What can you tell me about this place?"

"The Soul Cairn?" Morven blinked. Then he peered more closely at Marcus. "You don't really belong here, do you?" he inquired. "Interesting. What's a meat sack like you doing in a place like this?"

"We're looking for someone we think may be here," Marcus replied, ignoring the insult. "Someone named Valerica. Ever hear of her?"

Morven considered. "Hmm. Can't say that I have. Did she come here willingly, like you, or…unwillingly?"

"Willingly," Serana said, coming up to them. "She's a vampire, like me. She's my mother."

"Well, that's interesting," Morven considered. "How long has she been here, do you know? Not that you can measure time here, of course."

"Quite some time, we think," Marcus said. "Why, does that make a difference?"

Morven shrugged. "Any necromancer, vampire, or anyone else who makes a deal with the Ideal Masters can expect to have that deal go sour. It's the risk they take for the promise of power. If I had to guess, your mother, my dear, made a bargain with them that didn't end well for her. She's probably dead for sure, or their prisoner."

"She can't be dead!" Serana fretted.

"Why not?" Morven shrugged again. "Why shouldn't anyone who comes here be dead as a doornail? But if she's their prisoner, it would probably be more merciful if she _was_ dead."

"What makes you say that?" Marcus growled. Morven could have been a bit more diplomatic regarding the possible fate of Serana's mother.

"Because if she's their prisoner, the Keepers will be guarding her at the Boneyard, and I would stay well away from that place, if I were you."

"Who are the Keepers?" Serana asked, eyes wide.

"Monstrous, giant-like creatures with huge weapons and bad attitudes," Morven said dourly. "They'll destroy any soul that comes too close to their towers. They'll probably only just kill you."

"We'll take that under consideration," Marcus promised. "What's the Boneyard?"

"It's a huge fortress on the far side of the Soul Cairn," Morven said, giving a vague wave of his hand in one direction. "It's where the Ideal Masters keep their special 'guests'."

Marcus nodded. "Anything else you can tell us that might be helpful?"

"Not really," Morven said. "Oh, I suppose I could tell you about the healing wells, or the soul fissure, or even the soul husks. But why should I?"

"I already know about the soul fissures," Marcus gritted. This annoying little man was really wearing on him. "What are healing wells?"

"Oh, fine," Morven sighed in exasperation. "It's not like I can do anything with the knowledge anyway. The healing wells are large, circular wells filled with energy. If you drink from them, your soul is replenished. Since we're already dead here, we can't really be killed, but you'd be surprised how much pain you can endure when the tormentors come around. Besides, this place takes its toll on you." He gestured upwards, towards the unblinking eye which continued to draw in the soul energy. "Drinking from the energy wells replenish us. Some of us would rather continue to exist than to be blotted out forever, you see. Just another way the Ideal Masters allow us to prolong the agony."

Marcus felt a flash of pity for Morven and all the other souls trapped here.

"If you weren't here," he asked, "where do you think you would have ended up?"

"Oh, probably Aetherius," Morven said fatalistically. "I paid lip-service to the Eight, and as I said, I was an honest businessman. It just goes to show that one bad transaction can haunt you for the rest of your afterlife."

"Sorry there's nothing I can do to help," Marcus said sincerely.

"Well, I don't know what you _could_ do," Morven replied logically, "unless you could figure out a way to launch a full-scale attack on the Ideal Masters and free all of us. And I don't see that happening. Besides, without soul-trapping, how would you enchant weapons and armor and what-not? There aren't enough bad people in the world to supply _that_ demand." He sighed again. "No, I'll just stay here and try to sell what few wares I have left."

"Got anything good?" Marcus asked, curious.

"Very funny," Morven frowned. "And just what are you going to pay me with? Take a look around. Gold doesn't exactly have much value here."

"There must be something you'd take in trade," Serana said.

"Hmm," Morven considered. "Let me think a moment." He pondered for a few minutes, then finally said, "Alright, I'll tell you what. Have you seen the soul husks that grow around here?" At Marcus' perplexed look he elaborated. "Those ugly, conical fungi. Bring me…say, twenty-five of them, and I'll let you browse through my wares."

"That sounds fair," Serana said quickly.

"Oh, and you might find that the nasty little buggers will protect you from the drain of this place while you're here," Morven said, " _if_ you can manage to choke one down, that is. Good luck to you, then." Morven waved farewell and wandered back to his cart to rearrange his stock.

"Something you want in there?" Marcus asked Serana when he'd gone.

"He had a map," Serana replied. "It was a map of the Soul Cairn. He must have made it himself. We could really use that."

"We sure can," Marcus smiled. "Okay, let's scrounge for some fungi."

It took them almost an hour, dodging lightning bolts and fighting undead, but they finally garnered enough husks to present to Morven, who grudgingly parted with the map. Marcus and Serana retreated to the building behind Morven's area to study it.

"That area on the other side of the wall," Marcus said, "where the portal comes through; that's called 'Parish One', according to this."

"Yes, and that road there marks the boundary between Parishes Two and Three," Serana said. "And this building we're sitting outside is known as the Black Rectory. I wonder if he made up the names himself."

"Probably," Marcus chuckled. "Here," he pointed out. "Morven said something about Keepers. Here's one of their towers here, and the other two are here and here."

"Just how big _is_ this place?" Serana wondered.

"I don't know, but I hope you've got your walking shoes on," Marcus grinned.

Valerica wasn't in the Black Rectory and Marcus took the opportunity to climb to the top of the structure to get a good look at this side of the Soul Cairn. There were far more buildings here, he noted, and several of the tallest towers seemed to have huge boulders floating above them, swimming in a purple glow. According to their new map, those were the Keeper's towers. Some of the shorter buildings had enormous soul gems hovering overhead, and far off in the distance, he saw a large fortress. That must be the Boneyard Morven Stroud mentioned. None of the other structures seemed to fit the description. He came back down to rejoin Serana.

"I think I can save us a lot of searching," he said proudly. He told her about the fortress. "It's straight down this road."

"That has to be it!" Serana exclaimed. "How far away do you think it is?"

"Hard to say here," Marcus admitted. "But I think we can get there in an hour."

They set off in the direction of the fortification, and though they still had to fight their way through mistmen and bonemen, they made good time and found themselves at the edge of the enormous Boneyard. A double flight of steps led to the entrance, and Serana ran ahead of Marcus, only to be stopped by a force field at the top.

Marcus came up behind her. "Is she there?" he asked.

"I don't know," she worried. "I can't see anything inside. Mother!" she called. "Mother, are you there?"

A shadow moved deep within the entryway, and a tall, imposing woman in royal armor similar to Serana's stepped into the purple light. "Serana?" she gasped, incredulous. "Maker, it can't be! Serana?"

"Mother, I can't believe it! Is it really you? How do we get inside? We have to talk!"

Marcus was of a mind to step back and give the two some privacy over their heartfelt reunion, but Valerica's next words were like a dash of cold water.

"Serana, what are you doing here? Where's your father?"

"He doesn't know we're here," Serana assured Lady Volkihar. "I don't have time to explain."

"I must have failed," the older vampire fretted. "Harkon's found a way to decipher the prophecy, hasn't he?"

"No, Mother," Serana insisted. "You've got it all wrong. We're here to stop him…to make everything right."

"Wait," her mother interrupted. "You've brought a stranger here? Have you lost your mind?" Serana started to protest, but Valerica cut her off. She turned and fixed her glowing red eyes on Marcus. "You there, come forward. I would have words with you."

 _I've got a few of my own, lady, so don't push me,_ Marcus thought, but he stepped closer to the barrier.

"So," Valerica sneered. "How has it come to pass that a vampire hunter is in the company of my daughter?"

"What makes you think I'm a vampire hunter?" Marcus shot back.

"How else would you have found Serana, if you hadn't been poking around where I had hidden her?" Valerica glared.

 _Alright, that's fair enough,_ Marcus thought.

"It pains me to think," Valerica continued, "that you would travel with Serana under the guise of her protector in an effort to hunt me down."

"Don't flatter yourself, lady," Marcus said blandly. "Until I met your daughter I didn't know you existed. And this isn't some kind of deception on my part. I want to keep Serana safe." _Safer than you've apparently done._

"Coming from one who murders vampires as a trade, I find it hard to believe your intentions are noble," Valerica replied with some heat.

"I don't murder vampires," Marcus clarified. "Dragons are more my thing. But I don't think I need to justify myself to you."

"Serana has sacrificed everything to prevent Harkon from completing the prophecy," Valerica said angrily. "I would have expected her to explain that to you."

"She did," Marcus said shortly. "That's why we're here for the Elder Scroll."

Valerica snorted. "You think I'd have the audacity to place my own daughter in that tomb for the protection of her Elder Scroll alone?"

 _Don't answer that one, Marcus,_ he cautioned himself. _She's baiting you._

"The Scrolls are merely the means to an end," Valerica went on loftily. "The key to the Tyranny of the Sun is Serana herself."

"What do you mean?" Marcus frowned, looking at Serana. The vampire girl wouldn't look at him. She kept staring at her mother, close enough to touch but separated by the thin barrier of energy.

Valerica began pacing up and down the confines of her prison. "When I fled Castle Volkihar, I fled with two Elder Scrolls," she explained. "The Scroll I presume you found with Serana speaks of Auriel and his arcane weapon, Auriel's Bow. The second Scroll declares that 'The Blood of Coldharbour's Daughter will blind the eye of the Dragon.'"

Having been on the receiving end of prophecy himself, Marcus turned this over in his mind, but he still couldn't make sense of it. "How does Serana fit in?" he asked.

"Like myself," Valerica elaborated, "Serana was a human once. We were devout followers of Lord Molag Bal."

Marcus felt that sense of paternal ire rising again, but held his tongue. He'd learn nothing if he lost his temper.

"Tradition dictates the females be offered to Molag Bal on his summoning day," Valerica continued, her face impassive. Clearly she had gone through this herself, but whatever her thoughts were, she kept them from showing. "Few survive the ordeal," the older vampire said. "Those that do emerge as a pure-blooded vampire. We call such confluences the 'Daughters of Coldharbour.'"

"And Serana went through this willingly?" Marcus couldn't help demanding.

"It was expected of her," Valerica said stiffly. "She wouldn't dream of neglecting her duty in such a manner, any more than I would."

"Did you ever ask her?" the Dragonborn seethed.

Valerica blinked. "I don't expect you to understand," she said drily. "But because of this I felt it best to keep her and her Elder Scroll locked away from Harkon."

"This…Tyranny of the Sun…" Marcus said slowly. "It requires Serana's blood?"

Valerica nodded, smiling. "Now you're beginning to see why I wanted to protect Serana, and why I've kept the other Elder Scroll as far from her as possible."

"So Harkon means to kill her," Marcus said. It wasn't a question. He had already come to the conclusion that Harkon no longer saw Serana as a daughter. He wondered briefly if Serana realized that, too. One look at her face gave him his answer.

"If Harkon obtained Auriel's Bow and Serana's blood was used to taint the weapon, the Tyranny of the Sun would be complete," Valerica said somberly. "In his eyes, she would be dying for the good of all vampires."

Marcus shook his head firmly. "I would never allow that to happen," he growled.

Valerica's eyebrows climbed into her hairline. "And how exactly do you plan on stopping him?"

Marcus looked at Serana for a long moment, his eyes begging for her to understand.

"If I have to, I'll kill him," he said. Serana gave the briefest nod before turning back to her mother.

"Ha!" Valerica barked. It was a short laugh, with no humor in it. "If you believe that, then you're a bigger fool than I originally suspected. Don't you think I weighed that option before I enacted my plans?"

"And Serana's opinion in this?" Marcus wanted to know.

"You care nothing for Serana or our plight!" Valerica hissed, before her daughter could reply. "Whether or not you've become one of us in order to survive the Soul Cairn, you're still a vampire hunter at heart. You're here because we're abominations in your mind. Evil creatures that need to be destroyed!"

Instead of taking her bait, Marcus replied calmly, "Serana believes in me. Why won't you?"

Valerica settled back, the wind taken from her sails. "Serana?" she began, as if trying to understand why her daughter had strayed so far from their plan. "This stranger aligns himself with those that would hunt you down and slay you like an animal, yet I should entrust you to him?"

"This 'stranger' has done more for me in the brief time I've known him than you've done in centuries!" Serana said hotly.

"How dare you!" Valerica sputtered indignantly. "I gave up _everything_ I cared about to protect you from that fanatic you call a father!"

"Yes," Serana sighed, "he's a fanatic..he's…changed. But he's _still_ my _father._ Why can't you understand how that makes me feel?"

"Oh, Serana," her mother moaned. "If you'd only open your eyes. The moment your father discovers your role in the prophecy, that he needs your blood, you'd be in terrible danger!"

"So to protect me you decided to shut me away from everything I cared about?" Serana flung at her. Hot tears of anger were streaming down her cheeks now, but she didn't bother to wipe them away. "You never asked _me_ if hiding me in that tomb was the best course of action. You just expected me to follow you blindly!"

The younger vampire gulped as she plunged on, too intent on defying her mother and making her point to see what affect it had on Valerica. "Both of you were obsessed with your _own_ paths. Your motivations might have been different, but in the end, I'm still just a pawn to you, too."

 _And score one for the aggrieved daughter,_ Marcus thought with some satisfaction. _Let her have it with both barrels, honey._

"I want us to be a family again," Serana said sadly, finally wiping her cheeks. "But I don't know if we can ever have that. Maybe we don't deserve that kind of happiness. Maybe it isn't for us." She took a deep breath. "But we _have_ to stop him. Before he goes too far. And to do that, we _need_ the Elder Scroll."

Valerica was silent for a long moment, considering the young woman her daughter had become. If she thought about it, long and hard enough, she could remember far back to the time before she became a vampire, before all the madness began, when she and Harkon had been – if not blissfully happy, then at least content with their lives. She remembered the day Serana had been born, how Harkon hid his disappointment that she wasn't a son, and how he had failed to comfort her during the two miscarriages that had followed. It wasn't long after that, before Serana was even old enough to walk, that they had begun following Molag Bal. Not long after that, Harkon had become a vampire. He had fed from her, of course, carefully, so as not to turn her himself. And she had willingly helped him hide his nature from others who would not understand, because he was her husband and her lord.

When Serana's menses began, Valerica had offered herself to Molag Bal, certain she would never have other children. And as soon as she and Harkon felt Serana was strong enough in her magical studies, they had offered their only daughter to their god.

Things had fallen into a sort of dreaming rhythm after that. They had moved to Volkihar and purged it of its previous tenants. Harkon had brought in human cattle to feed upon, and the long nights melded into one another as she and Serana spent lifetimes studying necromancy together.

And then, Harkon had found the prophecy. It was only then that Valerica realized how far apart they had drifted over the centuries. Hastily she turned towards the Elder Scrolls they had acquired, and dedicated herself to their study, to determine the best course of action. Everything she had done had been to protect her daughter, once she had learned the awful truth.

But she had been blind after all. She never realized that the young girl, barely out of her teens, whom she always considered a child, had grown and matured and had formed opinions of her own. What Valerica had taken for obstinacy, Serana considered strength. What Valerica saw as rebellion, Serana saw as fighting for the right to live her own life.

Her shoulders slumped and she gave a wistful smile. So much had been lost. She knew that if they had not become vampires, they would all be dead long ages since, and Lady Volkihar regretted not one day that had passed since that decision had been made. But now she saw through her daughter's eyes what it had cost them as a family.

"I'm sorry, Serana," she said finally in a subdued voice. "I didn't know…I didn't see. I've allowed my hatred of your father to estrange us for too long. Forgive me." She rallied a smile; a pure, genuine smile of love for her daughter, her only child. "If you want the Elder Scroll, it's yours."

She turned to Marcus, and the smile was gone, but so was the hostility.

"Your intentions are still somewhat unclear to me," she said stiffly. "But for Serana's sake, I'll assist you in any way that I can."

"Do you have the Elder Scroll with you?" Marcus asked, scarcely daring to hope.

"Yes," Valerica replied. "I've kept it safely secured here ever since I was imprisoned. Fortunately, you're in a position to breach the barrier that surrounds these ruins."

"How did you become imprisoned?" Serana asked.

Valerica sighed. "When I first came here I made a bargain with the Ideal Masters to supply them souls in exchange for a safe place to hide from your father. Had I known the value they placed on my own soul, I never would have come here."

"Alright," Marcus said, feeling more optimistic than he had for a while. "What do we need to do to get you out of there?"

"You need to locate the tallest of the rocky spires that surround these ruins," Lady Volkihar explained. "At their bases, the barrier draws its energy from the unfortunate souls that have been exiled here. Destroy the Keepers that tend them, and the barrier should come down."

"Sounds good," Marcus said confidently. "We'll be back soon."

"One more word of warning," Valerica said as he turned to go. "There's a dragon that calls itself Durnehviir roaming the Cairn. Be wary of him. The Ideal Masters have charged him with overseeing the Keepers, and will undoubtedly intervene if you're perceived as a threat."

"May I ask you something?" Marcus ventured.

"Of course," Valerica nodded.

"Why haven't _you_ pursued the prophecy?"

Valerica sighed. "Harkon's vision is a world plunged in eternal darkness," she explained, "where the vampire can flourish, and never again fear the tyranny of the sun." She scowled. "What he fails to realize is how much attention will be called to our kind if the prophecy came to fruition."

Marcus had the next part figured out, but he asked the question anyway, since Lady Volkihar seemed to be expecting it. "What sort of attention?"

"If eternal night fell, there are many who wouldn't stand for it," she said honestly. "They would raise armies, and attempt to return things to normal. The order of the day would be our destruction, until every last vampire was hunted down and eliminated."

"So, you prefer living in the shadows," Marcus observed.

"I do," she nodded. "It's how the vampire has survived for millennia, and the only way we can continue to survive in the future."

She paused as if she would say more, then simply bid them farewell. "Be careful, and keep my daughter safe."

"Let's go find those…Keeper things, and get back here as soon as possible," Serana said.

Marcus agreed. He was fatigued beyond measure, and wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep for a week. But first things first. They had a job to do.

* * *

"Did you understand everything your mother said?" he asked Serana as they headed for the first of the Keeper's towers, located in Parish Two on their map. The 'Tabernacle of the Ideal Masters,' it was labeled, and Marcus sincerely hoped they wouldn't run into one of those mysterious beings.

"I think so," Serana said. "At least, I understand her motives more, and what's at stake. I still don't understand how my father thought he could get away with a plan like that."

"He could," Marcus said, "if he gets his hands on that bow your mother mentioned." He didn't mention to Serana how short-sighted Harkon's plan was, nor the major flaw the vampire lord had clearly failed to consider. "What do you know about Auriel's Bow?"

"Not much," Serana admitted. "I know it was supposed to have been used by the elven god Auri-El, but I have no idea what my blood would do to it."

"Well, I guess we'll just have to wait and see," Marcus said. "Now that we've spoken to your mother, how are you feeling?"

"Better," the vampire girl admitted. "I mean, I'm not happy about being manipulated, but I guess she did what she felt she had to do to protect me. Even a vampire mother is still a mother, right?"

"Right," Marcus replied, keeping his personal thoughts about Valerica to himself. "I think the important thing is that she now realizes how _you_ feel about it."

"Mm," the girl mused. Her thoughts were still turning it over in her mind, he could see, so he left her to them.

Lightning crashed down around them constantly, now and Marcus was seriously concerned how exposed they were on this rolling plain of the netherworld. It seemed the Ideal Masters were targeting them. He was grateful they were such poor shots, but there were still far too many close calls.

There were more bonemen, mistmen and wrathmen popping up through the bones along the way as well. Serana used her life-draining and ice spikes to the best of her ability, and even remembered how to cast a lightning bolt spell, but there was nothing around here that qualified as a body to be raised. Most of the bones were not complete skeletons, unlike the ones that were attacking them. Marcus used his Shouts to soften them up or blow them away, and his swords or his bow when he had to recharge.

They explored another of the buildings that was along their way, clearing it of undead and looting it of anything worth taking. They found a staff in one chest, and when Serana experimented they discovered it shot fireballs.

"Keep it," Marcus told her. "It's not coming out of your hands, and it explodes far enough away. You should be safe enough with it."

"Yes, but will _you_ be?" she grinned.

"Now, look here, little missy," he drawled. "I'd take it as a personal favor if you'd point that thing the other way from where I need to be."

Serana giggled and promised nothing.

Marcus found a couple more of the pages to the missing book, and wondered just how many there were.

At one point, a ghostly horse ran across their path and disappeared into the murky distance.

"That must be Arvak," Serana commented. "Want to go catch him?"

"Are you kidding?" Marcus snorted. "It would be like trying to catch the Headless Horseman."

"Who's that?" the vampire girl wondered, so Marcus told her about the apparition he had seen only once, while traveling in Whiterun Hold at night.

"No one really knows who he was," Marcus told her, "and I never followed him, though some have tried. I've heard rumors that he was once a warlord who grew wealthy on the spoils of war, and that anyone who could successfully follow him to the end of his ride would be rewarded by finding his treasure."

"So?" Serana asked. "Has anyone found it? The treasure, I mean?"

"Not that I've ever heard," Marcus chuckled. "Honestly, it sounds like a lot of wishful thinking to me."

They fell silent for a while, each busy with their own thoughts.

At length, they arrived at the Tabernacle that housed one of the Boneyard Keepers. Creeping as silently as they could, grateful for once for the cracks of continual lightning, they made their way through the maze of inner buildings until they reached what looked to be a central courtyard. At the far end, a behemoth of a humanoid figure sat on a gigantic stone throne. Clad in dragonbone armor similar to Marcus', it held a mace and shield made of the same material. Its head was wreathed in shadows, so they could not properly see its face, but twin pin-points of baleful blue light glared out across the courtyard. Wrathmen patrolled the square, and Marcus counted at least five of them.

"Can you take care of the wrathmen if I go up against Big and Ugly there?" he asked Serana quietly.

She peered over his shoulder before nodding. "Let me draw them off so I can use this," she said, hefting her new staff. "You can stop that Keeper thing in case he tries to follow."

"It's a plan, then," Marcus agreed. "Go when you're ready."

Serana nodded and slipped away. A few moments later, all the wrathmen moved to his left as Serana shouted at them. The Keeper stood, too, and made as if to follow, but Marcus knew he couldn't let the giant get too close to Serana. She might never be able to hold her own against a creature like that. Without a sound, he darted forward and sprinted for the beast.

He was startled by how fast the creature moved. Marcus hadn't anticipated that. All he saw was the huge shield filling his vision as it swung down to intercept his attack. The next thing he knew, he was flying backwards twenty feet, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. Picking himself up, wincing as he did so, he barely had a moment to clear his head before the Keeper was bearing down on him.

"Oh, shit," he said. Leaping to one side and rolling back to his feet, he swiped in quick succession with both dragon bone and Akaviri steel. Great gaping wounds opened on the Keeper's legs but did not bleed, and it only roared in protest and swung its mace at him. Marcus heard the wind whistle as it narrowly missed his head, and he struck out again before the creature could bring the toothed mattock back. Again, the Keeper bellowed in pain and spun around, swinging its deadly cudgel around with the momentum.

This time the dragonbone mace connected, and Marcus felt ribs crack as he sailed through the air again, landing hard in a pile of bones. He fired off a quick healing spell but had no time to do more as the giant was almost on him once more.

 _Damn, this bastard's fast!_ Marcus worried. A sudden jolt of electricity from behind stopped the giant momentarily, and Marcus thought for a moment that one of the bolts from above had finally hit a little too close. But he saw Serana several yards away casting her spell, and knew she was trying to help. He didn't see the wrathmen, and hoped she had already taken them out.

"Get up!" Serana cried, scurrying for higher ground where the behemoth couldn't reach her.

Marcus didn't wait to be told twice.

" _FUS RO DAH!"_ he bellowed at the Keeper, and while it didn't go flying, it did stagger, giving Serana a few more precious seconds to get to cover, and giving Marcus the opportunity to go wolf. He let the change come over him quickly, and was already leaping toward the gargantuan before he had completely changed. His wolfen reflexes kicked in as he nimbly dodged the next blow it aimed at him, allowing him to get behind it and hamstring it.

The Keeper stumbled, and Marcus took the chance to savage it while it was down. He couldn't find the throat in the shadows; it was almost like it wasn't there. But his powerful claws tore into its chest and found the still-beating heart, which Marcus allowed himself to devour. Immediately, he felt better. Not one-hundred percent, but better. The rest of his injuries healed themselves with blinding speed as the Keeper twitched twice more before lying still. Seconds later, it dissolved into a puddle of goo, and its dragonbone mace with it.

 _Damn!_ Marcus thought. _I should have grabbed it when I had the chance!_

"Wow," Serana said shakily. "I can't believe we killed that thing. And we have to do two more?"

"Just another fun day in the Soul Cairn," Marcus growled. "Let's rest here a bit before we press on, okay?"

"Sure," Serana agreed. "Would you like a soul husk?" she grinned, offering him one.

"No offense, but it smells like grave dirt," Marcus said, wrinkling his long, pointed nose and baring his fangs.

"Yes, but remember Morven Stroud said it might help offset the effects of being here in the Soul Cairn," Serana reminded him. "Go ahead," she urged him. "I've got plenty here. I've been picking up every one I see."

"Thinking of getting something else from Morven?" he teased, taking one from her and eyeing it dubiously.

"Of course! But I can spare one for you if you need it. Besides," she continued, "I'm sure I'll find more."

She watched him eagerly as he gave it one more suspicious look, then popped it into his mouth. He chewed carefully for several minutes.

"Well?" Serana asked, curious. "What does it taste like?"

"Like any other mushroom I ever ate," Marcus said, surprised. "It's actually not that bad. And I _am_ feeling better. Thanks, Serana."

"Anytime!" she chirped happily. "Ready to go?"

They left the Tabernacle soon after and made their way in as straight a line as they could parallel to the wall. The next tower, called 'The Shriveled Forest' on the map, was at the farther end, near the barrier on that side. As they drew closer they could see how apt the name was. Scores of thorn trees surrounded the tower. At least it gave them some cover, Marcus thought.

This Keeper also had wrathmen and mistmen prowling attendance on it, and was armored similar to its brother, but this time Marcus was already in wolf form, and the fight was a bit easier – though that wasn't saying much. The Keeper wielded a dragonbone great axe with ease, and Marcus knew he didn't want to get hit with that bad boy. He dodge and leaped around the Keeper, swiping with his claws or crushing with his jaws before releasing and shying away as the great axe swooped past. Finally, after a fight Marcus felt went on far too long, the Keeper went down.

Prepared for what would happen this time, he made a grab for the dragonbone great axe as it fell from the Keeper's grip but missed, and it disappeared before he could lay his hands on it.

"Damn it!" he swore as he reverted back to human form.

"I'm sorry, Marcus," Serana said sympathetically. "We still have one more Keeper, though."

As they made their way across the bleak terrain towards the last Keeper, Marcus and Serana saw an altar guarded by mistmen and bonemen. They would have attempted to circle around, except the undead came after them, and they were forced to fight. When it was over, they approached the altar to see what the undead had been guarding.

"What _is_ that thing?" Marcus wondered, examining the object.

"It looks like a skull," Serana said. "A horse's skull."

It was large, actually the size a horse's head would be, and looked to be carved from a type of midnight blue stone Marcus had never seen before.

"Are you sure?" Marcus said doubtfully. In all the years he had lived in two lives, he couldn't actually remember seeing a horse's skull.

"I'll bet it's Arvak's!" Serana exclaimed. "Remember that soul back there wanted us to find his horse for him?"

"Yeah, and we saw him," Marcus said doubtfully. "We just didn't chase after him."

"Well, what if Arvak was trying to lead us to his skull, like that Headless Horseman you mentioned was trying to lead people to his treasure?" Serana insisted.

Marcus looked into the vampire girl's face, so eager and full of hope, and saw this meant quite a bit to her.

"Okay," he relented. "Grab the skull. Let's see if we can find one soul among the myriad number of souls here."

In point of fact, they didn't have to go far. He had materialized not far away, and Serana recognized Arvak's owner, even if Marcus didn't.

"Arvak!" the soul cried in delight. "You found him! He's such a loyal beast!" He reached out and caressed the front of the carved skull. "I'll teach you how to call him," the soul told Serana. He quickly taught Serana the spell to summon the ghostly horse, and finished by saying, "Goodbye, hero! Take good care of Arvak for me! Such a good horse!"

The soul vanished, and Serana stood there with a bemused expression on her face. "I've got a horse!" she murmured, sounding very much like any other teenaged girl in Marcus' experience.

"He's certainly unique," Marcus agreed. "Very fitting for you, too, don't you think?"

" _I've got a horse!"_ Serana crowed happily, casting the spell to summon Arvak. He appeared immediately, midnight blue with a lighter mane and tail, and Serana slipped his skull into her pack, pulling herself onto Arvak's back.

"Come on, Marcus," she offered, extending her hand. "He's strong enough to carry both of us, aren't you boy?" she added, patting the ghost horse's emaciated neck. Arvak tossed his skull-like head and snorted. His mane and tail seemed to be made of phosphorescent ectoplasm, and Marcus had serious doubts to Serana's claim about the skeletal horse's ability to bear their combined weight. But to please the girl he took her hand and swung himself up behind her. The bony spine of the ghost-horse wasn't exactly comfortable, but then, neither was Odahviing's neck-ridge. He'd been in worse places.

Serana kicked her heels against Arvak's ribs, and they set off across the landscape toward their last destination. Marcus noticed as they rode that Arvak seemed to pay no attention to the terrain. He ran as smoothly and easily as if on a flat level surface. Anything that loomed in their way was passed through; the horse didn't stop or go around.

"Did you see that?" Serana beamed. "I love this horse!"

* * *

The last Keeper was situated at the top of its floating tower, aptly named 'The Floating Citadel' on their map, and getting to the top required them to jump into a portal. Several souls wandered here, but ran at the first sign of the Keeper coming down a curved stairway on the outside of the tower. Marcus hated this. There was nothing to keep him from falling over the edge if he lost his balance. Serana tried to keep her distance with her lightning and ice spikes, but there wasn't a lot of room to maneuver. Worse, this Keeper was using a dragonbone bow, and the shots fired from it were staggering. Marcus wasn't a covetous person by nature, but he wanted that bow.

 _Get in close, and stay there,_ he told himself. Deciding not to go wolf this time, he drew both blades and charged in, throwing himself against the side of the tower to try to avoid the arrow shots. He was only marginally successful. Launching into his attack routine, he pursued the Keeper up the stairs as it retreated to get a shot at him.

"No, you don't, buddy," Marcus growled, pressing his advantage. He could see the Keeper was faltering. With no place left to go at the top of the stairs, it was becoming desperate, trying to shoot Marcus at point-blank range. The shots were far more accurate here, and hurt a lot more, but the Keeper couldn't get off a shot as frequently with Marcus in its non-existent face. He was grateful for his own dragonbone armor, as it took the brunt of the damage, but he was beginning to feel like a pincushion.

" _KRII LUN AUS!"_ he Shouted, and watched with satisfaction as the Keeper staggered, weakened by the Marked for Death _thu'um_. Swiftly, before it could recover, he closed for the coup de grace and sank the Akaviri blade deep into its chest. The Keeper shuddered, dropping its bow which skittered over to the edge of the tower.

"No!" Marcus rasped, leaping after it. He made a grab for it, his fingers closing on it and claiming it just before it disappeared. But he had overbalanced himself, and he teetered on the edge, flailing wildly as the ground dropped away so far below him. Even the Whalebone Bridge hadn't been this high up.

Just as he thought he would topple over, something grabbed him from behind and hauled him back.

 _Crap,_ he thought, _that Keeper wasn't quite dead yet!_

But as he tumbled backward safely on the tower platform once more, he looked up to see Serana's orange eyes crinkling at him. _Of course,_ he realized. _She's a vampire. They have preternatural strength._

"No bow is worth your life, Marcus," Serana grinned. "You're the Dragonborn. Couldn't you just get someone to make one for you?"

Heart racing, breath coming in gasps, he realized the Keeper was a puddle of goo, and he was still holding the bow. "Yeah, maybe," he smirked, raising it to show her. "But I got it, didn't I?"

He got to his feet and adjusted his armor, then held out a hand to the vampire girl. "Thanks, Serana," he said sincerely. "I owe you one."

"Hey, we're in this together, like you said," she smiled, taking his proffered hand and shaking it. "Now let's go rescue Mother!"

It wasn't far back to the Boneyard from the Floating Citadel; it was even faster riding Arvak, and Marcus had to admit, he could probably get used to the unnerving horse.

When they reached the top of the stone steps they could see the barrier was down, and Marcus hung back while Serana rushed into her mother's arms. The reunion was brief, however. Valerica set Serana aside firmly and said, "Come, you mustn't linger. With that barrier down, Durnehviir is certain to investigate. The Scroll is this way. Hurry!"

She led them deeper into the interior of the portico and through a large set of double doors at the back. A short passage and flight of stairs led down to an open courtyard, with a raised central plaza area. Around the courtyard other buildings crowded, but Marcus had no time to examine them. A roar split the air, and the ground shook beneath their feet.

"It's too late!" Valerica cried. "Durnehviir has come!"

"Then we fight him!" Serana yelled.

"You let me worry about the dragon," Marcus said. "This is what I do for a living. Serana, Valerica, stay back and shoot from long range. Don't get too close!"

Another roar ripped the air, and Durnehviir settled on the wall at the far end of the courtyard. He gave a curious Shout Marcus had never heard before, and balls of blackish-purple light spewed from his mouth and hit the ground. Where they impacted, undead skeletons rose.

"Marcus, look out!" Serana called, as one rushed him. She shot it down with her lightning bolt.

"That's two I owe you, little missy!" Marcus waved. "You and your mother keep them off my back!"

"What are you going to do?" Valerica called out.

"I'm going after that dragon!"

For the first time since entering the Soul Cairn, Marcus felt completely at ease. This was something he knew how to do. He waited until the dragon was directly overhead, then Shouted.

" _JOOR ZAH FRUL!"_

A choking sound came from the dragon, and he staggered in mid-air as the _thu'um_ took hold. Floundering, he landed heavily in the courtyard, crushing two of the skeletons he had summoned. Grounded now, Marcus had a chance to examine the dragon more closely, and noticed what he hadn't before: Durnehviir seemed to be almost as skeletal as the dragon he had fought in Labyrinthian two years before. Though Durnehviir had a bit more flesh on his bones, his wings were tattered and torn, and Marcus thought it was a miracle the dragon could fly at all. He was almost a zombie skeleton, with skin dripping off constantly, but never seeming to disappear completely.

There was no more time to consider the dragon's appearance, however. The teeth were too damned close for comfort as Durnehviir snapped at Marcus. The Dragonborn launched himself to one side, swiping across the muzzle with Dragonbane. Durnehviir flinched and growled, pulling back from the Akaviri steel, but Valerica was there conjuring a storm atronach to fight the Boneyard guardian.

A buffet from his wings sent the atronach back where it had spawned from, and Valerica gave a grimace, shooting the dragon with lightning of her own. Marcus couldn't see Serana from his vantage point and hoped the younger vampire was alright.

He fell easily into his fighting routine, striking swiftly with precise accuracy, well aware by now of a dragon's weak points. Durnehviir snaked his head in low, to attempt to trip Marcus, but the Dragonborn was ready and leaped onto the undead drake's head, stabbing down repeatedly with Alduin's Bane. In a matter of moments, it was all over, and Marcus leaped clear, prepared to accept another dragon soul.

But it didn't happen. Durnehviir never ignited, but simply melted away, as the Keepers had done.

 _What the fuck?_ Marcus thought irritably. _Where's my soul?_

The summoned wrathmen collapsed into goo with Durnehviir's disappearance, and Serana and her mother approached him.

"Forgive my astonishment," Valerica marveled, "but I never thought I'd witness the death of that dragon."

Slightly mollified by her reaction, Marcus asked, "You've never seen anyone kill a dragon before?"

Valerica shook her head. "Volumes written on Durnehviir allege he can't be slain by normal means," she replied. "It appears they were mistaken. Unless…"

Marcus was immediately on alert. "Unless 'what'?" he asked warily.

"The soul of a dragon is as resilient as its owner's scaly hide. It's possible that your killing blow merely displaced Durnehviir's physical form while he reconstitutes himself," she mused. Marcus could almost agree with that, since he hadn't taken the soul. In a disturbing epiphany, he realized he hadn't exactly taken Alduin's soul, either. Did that mean…?

"How long will that take?" Serana asked, worried.

"I don't know, Serana," Valerica admitted. "Minutes? Hours? Years? I can't even begin to guess. But I suggest we don't hang around to find out. Let's get you that Elder Scroll. It's this way." She turned and led them to an area she had set aside for herself in a covered alcove. Here she had set up a complete alchemy laboratory, though it was patently clear she had few ingredients to work with. Books and potions were scattered around the worktables, but Valerica unlocked a long chest at the back of the nook. She stepped back and let Marcus come forward.

Inside lay the Elder Scroll they needed. He took it out gingerly and slung it on his back.

"And now you must go," Valerica said to him. "Do whatever you must to stop Harkon, but promise me you'll keep my daughter safe. She's the only thing of value I have left."

"I promise you I won't let any harm come to her," Marcus vowed. "But I need to ask you something."

"Of course," Valerica said. She still wasn't sure what this man's intentions were towards Serana, but she had seen him take down and kill a dragon she never thought could be killed. And the fact that the barrier that had kept her prisoner for so long had fallen just a short time ago meant that the Keepers had been defeated. She knew the Ideal Masters would replace them, but it would take time. And perhaps…just perhaps…this man might actually do what he claimed he could do, and kill her estranged, insane husband. There was a chance, albeit a small one, that she might be able to go home. "Ask what you will. I'll answer if I can."

"A part of my soul was used to buy my way in here," Marcus began, and Valerica smirked.

"So, I see some of the necromancy lessons I taught Serana actually took root. Yes," she smiled. "I think I can help you with that. There's an offering table not far from here. I think you'll find that soul gem there. All you need do is pick it up. As soon as you touch it, your soul will automatically rejoin you."

A thought occurred to Marcus then. "Why don't you come with us?"

"Yes, Mother!" Serana exclaimed. "I'm sure we could defeat Father if you were with us."

But Valerica shook her head. "You forget," she pointed out. "I am also a Daughter of Coldharbour. If I were to return, it would only increase Harkon's chances of success." She shook her head. "No, I will stay here until such time as I am sure your father no longer poses a threat."

"Then we'll return for you just as soon as we can," Marcus promised, seeing Serana's face light up.

Whatever he might have thought about a woman who was equally responsible for giving her daughter to a Daedric Prince as Harkon was, Valerica was still Serana's mother. It didn't matter how old a girl was; she still needed her Mom.

They left the Boneyard, then, but didn't get far. On the broken wall just outside, Durnehviir was perched.

"Oh crap," Marcus muttered, drawing his swords.

"Stay your weapons," Durnehviir begged. "I would speak with you, Qahnaarin."

"Didn't I just kill you?" Marcus asked, troubled. "I thought you were dead."

"Cursed," Durnehviir grumbled, "not dead. Doomed to exist in this form for eternity. Trapped between _laas_ and _dinok,_ between life and death."

"So why are we speaking," Marcus asked, still guardedly cautious.

Durnehviir shook out his head – a dragon's way of shrugging. As he did so, bits of his flesh flew off. "I believe in civility among seasoned warriors," he replied equably. "And I find your ear worthy of my words."

For a dragon, this was high praise, and Marcus knew this well. Such a consideration demanded equal courtesy, and he sheathed his blades. Seeing this, Serana put her hands down; they had been crackling with electricity.

"My claws have rended the flesh of innumerable foes," Durnehviir continued, "but I have never once been felled on the field of battle. I therefore honor-name you 'Qahnaarin,' or 'Vanquisher' in your tongue."

Marcus gave a small bow. "I found you equally worthy," he replied formally.

Durnehviir straightened and raised his head a little, the sign of a dragon who felt a measure of redemption after a loss. "Your words do me great honor," he intoned formally. "My desire to speak with you was born from the result of our battle, Qahnaarin. I merely wish to respectfully ask a favor of you."

"What kind of a favor?" Marcus asked warily. He hadn't dealt with dragons this long without learning to be careful what he promised them. They had long memories.

"For countless years I've roamed the Soul Cairn," Durnehviir said slowly, "in unintended service to the Ideal Masters. Before this, I roamed the skies above Tamriel. I desire to return there."

"So, what's stopping you?"

"I fear that my time here has taken its toll upon me," Durnehviir replied. "I share a bond with this dreaded place now. If I ventured far from the Soul Cairn, my strength would begin to wane until I was no more."

Marcus wondered where this was all leading. "Well, how can I help?" he asked. He had a brief mental image of him and Serana trying to shove Durnehviir's bulk through the portal into Valerica's study, but then wondering how to get him outside, and quickly shut that down.

"I will place my name with you," the dragon replied, "and grant you the right to call my name from Tamriel. Do me this simple honor, and I will fight at your side as your _Grah-Zeymahzin,_ your Ally, and teach you my _thu'um."_

Marcus felt his ears perk up at this. If he had still been in wolf form, they would have stood straight up, he was certain. "Your _thu'um?_ " he repeated. "You have a _thu'um?"_

"Indeed," Durnehviir said smugly, the corners of his maw lifting in a smile. But he wouldn't elaborate. Marcus knew this was the carrot being dangled, and he didn't deny to himself he wanted it, but he was still cautious. Dragons guarded their Shouts jealously, and calling Durnehviir's name from outside the Soul Cairn didn't seem like so much in comparison to the reward.

"Just call your name in Tamriel?" Marcus queried skeptically. "That's it?"

Durnehviir ducked his head in acknowledgement. "Trivial in your mind perhaps," he said, "but for me, it would mean a great deal." The dragon could see that Marcus still wrestled with suspicion, for he added, "I do not require an answer now, Qahnaarin. Simply speak my name to the heavens when you feel the time is right."

"How did you end up in the Soul Cairn?" Serana asked now, curious.

"There was a time when I called Tamriel my home," the dragon replied. "But those days have long since passed. The _dovah_ roamed the skies, vying for their small slices of territory that resulted in immense and ultimately fatal battles."

"Were you a part of all that?" Marcus asked, fascinated. Despite the fact that he had a dragon's blood and soul, despite the fact that under somewhat normal circumstances he would have Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time inside his head, he knew very little about the days when dragons freely flew the skies of _Keizaal_ , as they called it, and were worshipped by mortals as gods.

"I was," Durnehviir nodded. "But unlike some of my brethren, I sought solutions outside the norm in order to maintain my superiority. I began to explore what the _dovah_ call _Alok-Dilon,_ the ancient forbidden art that you call necromancy."

Now Marcus began to understand. "So you sought the Soul Cairn for answers."

"The Ideal Masters assured me that my powers would be unmatched, that I could raise legions of the undead," the dragon said. "In return, I was to serve them as a Keeper until the death of the one who calls herself Valerica."

"Mother?" Serana blinked in surprise. "But she's a vampire! She's immortal!"

Durnehviir lowered his head. Whether it was in shame or anger, Marcus wasn't certain. He knew, however, that it wasn't directed at them. "I discovered too late that the Ideal Masters favor deception over honor," he growled, "and had no intention of releasing me from my binding. They had control of my mind, but fortunately they couldn't possess my soul."

"Is that why you're free now?" the Dragonborn asked.

"Free?" Durnehviir blinked. "No, I have been here too long, Qahnaarin. The Soul Cairn has become a part of what I am. I can never fully call Tamriel my home again, or I would surely perish. I only hope that you will allow me the precious moment of time there through your call."

"Why do you call Marcus 'Qahnaarin', Durnehviir?" Serana asked, curious.

"In my language, the Qahnaarin is the Vanquisher," the dragon explained. "The one who has bested a fellow _dovah_ in battle."

"But I'm not a dragon," Marcus pointed out.

"Even in the Soul Cairn, the defeat of the World Eater has reached my ears, Dovahkiin," Durnehviir said respectfully. "You may not be _dovah,_ but the defeat of Alduin earns you the right of title."

"So there's no way of freeing you from this place?" Marcus asked, now feeling quite sorry for the ancient dragon.

"None I know of, Qahnaarin," Durnehviir replied. "Do not feel regret for my predicament. Only consider, if you will, giving me a few moments of time to fly the skies of _Keizaal_ once more, and I will be content."

There was nothing more they could say, and Durnehviir watched as they walked slowly away from the Boneyard, heading to the place Valerica had marked on their map. The Black Minster, it was called, and Lady Volkihar believed it to be the building which housed an altar to the Ideal Masters, which she felt certain also contained the soul gem that held the small part of Marcus's soul he had paid to come here in the first place. Serana summoned Arvak again and they both climbed on.

"Now I feel really bad for him," Serana said as they rode away.

"I do, too," Marcus said. "But really, there isn't anything we can do to help. Maybe if Tamsyn were here, she might have some ideas."

Once again, the familiar pangs of anxiety set in, and Marcus wished – not for the last time – that he knew whether or not his wife was safe.

Arvak vanished when they got to the Minster and dismounted. It was immediately apparent that this was some sick, twisted person's idea of a maze. Identical corridors nested and snugged in and around each other, and the corners were piled high with bones, which often held bonemen or mistmen. They wandered for nearly a half hour, doubling back, taking wrong turns, and seeing passages through frustratingly small windows too tiny to climb through with no idea how to get to those areas. Eventually, they found a corner they hadn't already explored and discovered the portal.

"Where do you think it goes?" Serana asked.

"Probably up," Marcus said. "I don't think there's a corner here we don't already know intimately."

"Well, alright," she said. "Why don't you go up and claim the gem. I'll wait here for you."

"I shouldn't be long," he promised, and stepped onto the portal.

There was a sickening lurch to his stomach, and he found himself, as he had at the Floating Citadel, standing on top of the roof of the Black Minster. Ahead he saw one of the enormous soul gems he'd seen earlier, floating above the building. Just below it was a chest, and he quickly walked over to it.

A wave of dizziness and weakness assailed him, and Marcus recoiled, stumbling backwards. The giant soul gem pulsed with an almost evil sentience.

Marcus cast around, examining the rest of the roof. There was no other portal on the roof, so there was no way to go back down to Serana and figure out what to do. He could try to power through it, but he had a feeling the drain would have a logrithmic effect on his endurance.

Blowing out a breath of frustration, Marcus walked to the edge and looked down, judging whether it was worth trying to jump to the ground below. He noticed how the ground rose towards one end of the Minster, and that gave him an idea. He followed the edge until he reached a corner. This side of the building was sunken deeper in the ground – or else a lot of debris had piled up on this side – and it was a lot less distance to fall from here. Gritting his teeth, he jumped, landing hard in a pile of bones, but at least nothing was sprained or broken.

Re-entering the maze, he called out. "Serana? Where are you?"

"Did you get the gem already?" she called back. "I'm coming!"

"No, wait!" he shouted, without using a _thu'um._ "Stay where you are. There's a problem. Just guide me with your voice."

Clearly confused, Serana did as he asked, dredging up a forgotten piece of poetry she'd read ages ago and reciting it until he joined her once more.

"That was very nice," he complimented her. "You've got a great speaking voice."

"Thanks," she said wryly. "So what's the problem?"

He told her about the giant soul gem draining him, and she rubbed her chin in reflection. "I should have thought about that," she nodded. "I don't know if it's true, but some philosophers think the Ideal Masters take the form of those gigantic soul gems we've seen. That one is clearly guarding the offering chest. We have to figure out a way for you to outsmart it."

"What about those soul husk things?" Marcus said. "It really helped the last time I ate one."

"Of course!" Serana said, digging into her pack. "I've got one or two spares."

"I'll only need one," Marcus said as he took it from her. "Here goes." He stepped onto the portal, soul husk in hand.

Once more he found himself back on the roof, except this time he ate the fungus before approaching the chest. The soul gem over his head turned a deep, dark purple as it attempted to extract the rest of his soul, but Marcus flipped it off and opened the chest. As soon as his hand touched the black soul gem inside, he felt complete once more, as though something that had been missing was now back where it belonged. He grabbed the other loot as well, including another page from the mysterious missing book.

Wasting no time, he made a dash for the edge of the building where he had jumped before, but this time – with a running start – he was able to clear the bone pile at the base of the Minster.

"I've got it, Serana!" he called. "Come on out!"

"Okay," came her muffled voice, "but this time I think you're going to have to talk me through it!"

Marcus laughed. "I could sing 'Ragnar the Red' for you."

"Please, no," Serana whined. _"Anything_ but that!"

Marcus gave a deep chuckle and launched into _Ivarstead Fair,_ which was a song he had paraphrased from his old life and taught to Sven in Riverwood soon after he had come to Skyrim. It was gaining in popularity over the past two years, and though it worked better with two voices singing in counterpoint, he restricted himself to just singing the main theme until Serana joined him once more.

"Wow, I'm impressed," Serana said. "Dragonborn, Qahnaarin and bard-in-the-making. Is there anything you can't do?"

"Cook," Marcus said impishly. "I leave that to Lydia and my wife. I can't boil water without burning it."

Serana rolled her eyes and summoned Arvak to take them back to the portal. She stopped by Morven Stroud's stall one last time and picked out a spell book she'd had her eye on: _Revenant._

"I thought you could already raise dead bodies?" Marcus asked as she summoned Arvak again. The undead horse would vanish each time she dismounted, so Marcus learned very quickly to be the first one off.

"This spell summons the strongest ones available," Serana said with some satisfaction. "One of these days I hope to be able to summon a thrall."

Marcus shuddered inwardly, but all he said was, "Well, every girl needs a hobby."

They made good time back to the portal and were soon ascending the steps and found themselves back in Valerica's study.

"I wish Mother could have come back with us," Serana said sorrowfully, looking back into the purpleness of the portal. "I mean, I know why she can't, but still…"

"We'll come back for her, Serana," Marcus said. "I promise. As soon as we've dealt with your father. And…speaking of your father," he continued tentatively.

"Yes?" the vampire girl said, immediately on the defensive.

"How do you feel about what we're doing?" the Dragonborn continued. "Will you be okay if we have to kill him?"

"If?" Serana snorted. "I've kind of figured out that's where all this is leading. He…" She broke off, and turned back to the portal, her face a study in misery.

"It's just that…he hasn't really been a father to me for a long time, even before I was…well, you know." It was clear she didn't like thinking about the time she'd spent locked away, and Marcus wondered once more if she had been aware of the passing of the centuries. "No," Serana said finally, firmly. "This has to end. If he won't see reason, then so be it."

"Alright," Marcus said kindly, proud of her for coming to her own decision in the matter. "Let's get back to Fort Dawnguard and see what Dexion can tell us from these Elder Scrolls."

Getting out of Castle Volkihar was a lot faster and easier than getting in, and the two soon found themselves on the beach. It was some time in the middle of the night, and the tide was all the way out. They had to shove the little skiff across the pebbles to get it into the water so that Marcus could row them back to Icewater Jetty. Neither had any idea how long they had wandered in the Soul Cairn, but Marcus was worn out and fought the currants with all his strength to get them back to the dock. His stomach was rumbling mightily, and he realized it must have been a long while since he'd eaten.

"How about you, Serana?" he asked when she teased him, comparing his gurgling stomach to a dragon's roar. "Do you need to eat?"

"No, I'm good," she replied. "But we can stop somewhere if you need to go wolf."

"Ah, no," Marcus demurred. "I think I'd rather have a nice, juicy T-bone steak, medium-rare with a side of baked potatoes."

He called Odahviing, then, and while they waited for the dragon to appear, debated whether to head to Whiterun or go straight to Fort Dawnguard.

"I know you want to see your family," Serana said earnestly, "but I really think we need to hear what Dexion has to say about the Scrolls."

"Well, we left the other two with him, so you're probably right. Let's head there, then."

* * *

An hour later found them passing the Throat of the World, and it wasn't long after that when they landed on top of the Fort in the middle of a rainstorm. Marcus and Serana hurried inside and Odahviing took off for wherever he went when Marcus didn't need him. The dragon told them it had been two days since he had dropped them off at Castle Volkihar, and both the vampire and the Dragonborn were feeling the crunch of time.

They found Dexion seated by the fireplace in the room used by the Guard as a barracks. He was sitting quietly, facing the fire, and in the gloom Marcus didn't notice at first there was something remarkably different about the old monk.

"We've got it, Dexion!" he said as he came up to the Moth Priest. "The third Elder Scroll, the one about ancient blood."

"I'm sorry, my friend," Dexion said sadly, not looking up at them. "I can no longer be of use in this matter."

"What?" Marcus asked, wishing the priest would look at him. "Why?"

"It's my fault," Dexion said, finally shifting. "In my haste to read the Elder Scroll, I neglected to make the proper preparations required for reading. I thought I would be able to allay the aftereffects, but I was wrong. Now, I am paying for it." Now Marcus could see what he couldn't before. A blindfold covered the old priest's eyes.

"Oh no!" Serana breathed in sympathy. "That covering over your eyes….are you—"

"Blind?" Dexion sighed. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Can you do anything?" Marcus asked. "We could fetch a healer for you."

"No," Dexion said, mustering a smile. "It will have to run its course, and there's always the chance I may never recover."

"You're taking this awfully well for someone who might end up permanently blind, Dexion," Marcus commiserated.

"This is one of the risks my Order takes each time one of us reads an Elder Scroll," the Moth Priest shrugged. "It sometimes takes weeks of careful meditation, fasting and rituals to prepare to read one. Those who neglect the procedures can sometimes pay with their sight…and that is the least cost to worry about. Some pay with their minds."

Marcus remembered Septimus Signus once more, who claimed to have read an Elder Scroll, and had written a thoroughly incomprehensible book on the subject. Marcus finally understood now where his madness had originated, and felt more sympathy for the old madman than he had when he'd met him years ago. Once again, he wondered what the codger had been up to since he last saw him. Had he ever opened the Dwemer lockbox?

"Then we're sunk," he sighed. To have come all this way and have it fall so short. Marcus didn't think he could feel more discouraged.

"No," Dexion countered. "There _is_ another way. The question is: how much are _you_ willing to risk to find Auriel's Bow?"

Marcus considered. He realized that Isran and the Dawnguard could probably pull together enough people to make a small foray against Castle Volkihar to stop Lord Harkon, but some or most of them might end up dead. If he accepted the Companions' offer of assistance, that evened the odds a bit. If he called in some favors from Jarl Elisif, he might be able to put a hundred or so troops on the ground, but it would be a nasty fight start to finish on Harkon's home turf.

Auriel's Bow by itself probably wouldn't change their odds very much, but he sure as hell didn't want it falling into Harkon's hands, and that meant they had to go after it.

"What do I need to do?" he asked now, hearing Serana's murmur of agreement.

"I can't guarantee you'll be free from harm," the Moth Priest said. "Becoming blind could be the least of your worries."

Marcus smiled, though he knew Dexion couldn't see it. "Don't worry about us," Marcus assured him. "Just tell me."

"Alright," Dexion assented. "Scattered across Tamriel are secluded locations known only as Ancestor Glades," he continued. "There's one in Skyrim, in the pine forests south of Falkreath. Performing the ritual of the Ancestor Moth within the Glade should provide the answers you seek."

"How does this ritual work?" asked Serana.

"It involves removing the bark from the canticle tree," the old monk said, "which will, in turn, attract Ancestor Moths to you. Once enough of the Moths are following you, they will provide you with the second sight needed to read the Scrolls."

"How do we get the bark?" the vampire girl asked. "I'm not really keen on breaking my nails against a tree trunk."

Dexion gave a small smile. "In keeping with tradition, you must use a specific tool within the Ancestor Glade," he explained. "It's an instrument known as a draw knife."

"Oh, I know what that is," Marcus said. "I used to do some woodworking in my younger days, and used one for some projects I made."

Serana threw him a curious look, but said nothing.

"Every Moth Priest is taught this ritual," Dexion went on, "but few ever get the chance to perform it. You should consider yourself fortunate if it works for you."

"Sounds good," Marcus said, confidently. "Do I need to read the Scrolls in any particular order?"

Dexion shrugged. "From what I saw in the vision I had, the Elder Scroll that foreshadows the defiance of the gods with the blood of mortals is the key to the prophecy."

Marcus nodded. _So, we read Valerica's Scroll first,_ he thought. _After that, it probably doesn't matter._

He wasn't fooling himself. The chances of going blind or mad by reading the Elder Scroll terrified him, but he knew he wouldn't risk Serana doing it. He had promised Valerica, after all, that he would see she came to no harm.

"So," Serana began as they bid farewell to Dexion and returned to the main hall. "Any idea where we can find this Ancestor Glade?"

"I have no clue," Marcus said honestly. "But I know someone who might." He pointed up toward the roof, and Serana grinned. Sometimes it was nice to have an ancient dragon on your side.

* * *

 _[Author's Note: Well, that wasn't so bad, was it? Marcus has survived the Soul Cairn, retrieved the Elder Scroll, and despite Dexion losing his sight, they know what they need to do now to find Auriel's Bow before Harkon does._

 _Next up, we find out the Big Secret behind a finely-tooled leather mask. Thanks for reading!]_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

The sounds of combat from the outer hall were finally diminishing, and Tamsyn spared a glance out the door to see if her team was winning or losing. Cicero was not happy about being sent away, but he complied, and was now whirling like a dervish, his two daggers flashing in the light of the Varla stones that illuminated the chamber.

Argis was at his back, and the two were facing down Altmer Justiciars and wraith-like undead from all sides. There were far fewer Thalmor than wraiths. As Tamsyn watched, one of the wraiths succumbed to Cicero's blades and a Justiciar – who had been casting electricity at the two men from a distance, suddenly fell without a sound, though neither Argis nor Cicero had been using ranged weapons. There was no wraith in his immediate vicinity.

 _Maybe there really_ is _a Grey Fox here,_ Tamsyn thought.

She couldn't spare any more time to watch, however, as she needed to keep Justiciar Telperion immobilized.

Yes…the Justiciar. Tamsyn could hardly believe her eyes when she whipped off the mask. No wonder the Thalmor interrogator had hidden her true nature. The truth would have astounded her entire organization, to say nothing of putting her life at risk.

Tamsyn closed the door and returned to where the woman lay. "They seem to have a handle on things out there," she remarked conversationally. "So let's talk about you, now, Justiciar. How is it that one of the highest-ranking Thalmor in Cyrodiil is actually a Snow Elf?"

"I don't need to justify my existence to you, Arch-Mage," Justiciar Telperion muttered. Tamsyn had taken the precaution of blind-folding the Thalmor, to prevent her from attempting to use her psychic abilities even while bound.

"No?" Tamsyn countered drily. "You certainly didn't have any inhibitions trying to determine _my_ true nature. And _your_ methods weren't nearly as nice. I think I'm being perfectly reasonable in asking what brought you to this point." She gave a small sigh. "But, if you won't tell me, let me see if I can put it together, based on what I know."

"You know nothing," Sylfaen Telperion spat derisively.

"Don't be too sure of that," the Breton girl cautioned. "I've read a lot of books and I've been inside your mind. Briefly, I'll admit, but long enough to make some educated guesses. Let's see now." Tamsyn settled herself on the chest that that had held her belongings, since there was no chair. She had reclaimed everything except the Sanguine Rose, and wondered what had happened to it.

 _I went to a lot of trouble to get that staff,_ she fumed to herself. She was relieved to find her Ring of Flying at the bottom of the chest. Clearly, her magic warding had worked, and the Dominion had ignored it as a simple silver band.

"From what I've read," Tamsyn continued, "the Atmorans came to Tamriel ages ago, early in the Mythic Era. The land was filled with the different races of mer at that time, and the Falmer, or Snow Elves, lived in the area where the first humans made landfall. They justifiably viewed these newcomers as the invaders they were. Vicious battles were fought, but the men were strong and there were huge losses on both sides. Eventually, humans got the upper hand and almost wiped out the Falmer facing them. In desperation, the Snow Elves sought aid from their brethren, the Dwemer, who agreed to help, but for a price: that of the blinding of the Falmer race. Pretty harsh, if you ask me, and not a step most would be willing to take, since the penalty seems so unrelated to the aid asked for."

The Justiciar didn't answer, but Tamsyn didn't expect her to, so she continued in her theory.

"Anyway, some of the Falmer agreed, simply to have a place to hide away from the humans," she narrated. "But I'm thinking not everyone went along with it, and decided to seek other places where they could find refuge; someplace far away and remote, away from humans. Perhaps they felt that in those forgotten places, they could rebuild their society once more, though they would always be crippled by the losses they suffered. Those who stayed became nothing more than slaves to the Dwemer, until that race decided to leave Nirn and go who-knows-where. But over the eons, those Falmer who were left behind, who were blinded, remained underground in secret and in hiding in the ruined Dwemer cities, and devolved into what we know today as Falmer. Am I getting this right?"

The Thalmor woman sniffed, but didn't reply.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," Tamsyn shrugged. "So, that leaves the question as to how _you,_ Justiciar, have survived not blind, and obviously not a deformed subterranean creature. But I think I know the answer to that, also." The Arch-Mage gave a small smile. "You see, as I said, I've been inside your mind. So here's what I think happened: you were part of a group that did not accept the Dwarves' offer of aid. You were probably with a group that left to find a new place to start over.

"But something happened along the way, and your group got separated. I'm guessing you were probably attacked, either by some of the Nedic peoples who lived in Tamriel at the time. But it's also likely that you were attacked by some of your _own_ people. The Dunmer weren't the Dunmer at that time; they were the Chimer, I believe, but they lived mainly over in Morrowind – or what would become Morrowind, anyway. So I don't think it was them. No, I think it may have been the Orsimer. I think they may have captured you and sold you into slavery. And in the ensuing chaos, you were separated from someone you cared about…parents, maybe, or a sibling. Or maybe even a—"

" _ENOUGH!"_ the Justiciar screamed. _"LEAVE ME ALONE!"_

"Touched a nerve there, did I?" Tamsyn asked kindly. "Alright. We won't go there. It's probably better treatment than you deserve, after your 'kindnesses' to me, but I'm not a vengeful person. I find it interesting that those who are so eager to deal out torture can't handle it themselves. I think I'm pretty close to the mark, judging from your reaction. But that still doesn't explain how you've risen in the ranks of the Dominion, who don't really tolerate each other, from what I've seen, let alone other races."

The battle in the other room seemed to have come to a final conclusion, and Tamsyn stood, moving swiftly and silently to the door to peer out. Relief swept over her upon seeing Cicero and Argis approaching. A Nightingale strode behind them, and as she watched he removed his cowl, revealing himself to be a Breton. He was still young, not much more than thirty or so, Tamsyn thought, with dark hair and a trim goatee and moustache. Grey eyes constantly searched the shadows as they came into the room.

"So this is the Arch-Mage?" he queried. At Tamsyn's nod he took her hand and bowed over it. "Allow me to introduce myself," he said smoothly. "I am the Grey Fox, Guildmaster of the Thieves' Guild here in Cyrodiil." He gallantly kissed the back of her hand.

"Arch-Mage Tamsyn," the girl replied, dropping a courtsey. "And you're also a Nightingale, I see."

He released her hand immediately and peered sharply at her. "What do you know about Nightingales?" he asked suspiciously.

"Quite a bit, actually," the Arch-Mage said, waving a dismissive hand. "But that isn't important right now. We need to get out of here, and we need to take her with us." She pointed to the bound and still-paralyzed figure of Justiciar Telperion.

"Cicero would _still_ rather kill her," the little jester growled.

"By the Nine!" Argis exclaimed, seeing the Thalmor unmasked for the first time. "Is she a vampire?"

"No, Argis," Tamsyn said. "But can the questions wait, please? I really want to get out of here!"

"I agree," the Grey Fox said, eyeing the Justiciar curiously. "Escape first, questions later. Are you certain she has to come?" he asked Tamsyn, gesturing to the bound elf.

"Yes," Tamsyn said firmly.

"I'll get her," Argis offered, and easily picked the woman up, slinging her over his shoulder. A small _oof!_ was her only response.

"How do we get out of here?" Tamsyn asked.

"We'll slip out the way we came, sweet Tamsyn," Cicero purred. "There shouldn't be any more nasty Thalmor in our way."

"The Dominion will find out what you've done," the Justiciar threatened, from behind Argis' back. "They'll send more Justiciars to investigate what happened. You'll be found out."

"Not too soon," the Grey Fox said smugly. "I turned the portal upside down."

" _WHAT?"_ the Thalmor gasped.

"What portal?" Tamsyn asked.

"The one over there in that small chamber," the Grey Fox pointed. "I would imagine it would be difficult to come through a portal if it's facing solid stone."

"Damn near impossible," Tamsyn remarked in awe. "How did you know that one was there?"

"I saw them use it," he shrugged. "I want to come back here soon and see what they've left behind, and I don't want any Thalmor breathing down my neck while I do it."

They quickly back-tracked out of the Wendesel and Canosel into the relatively newer part of the ancient ruin. At every turn the Grey Fox would pause and listen for any Thalmor operatives they may have missed, or that may have escaped the "distraction" he had staged outside. None came, and they soon found themselves standing by the portal back to the Watchtower. Tamsyn recast her paralyzation spell on the Justiciar after Argis set her down for a moment.

The Grey Fox was staring longingly at the portal pad. "I sure would love to take that with me," he mused.

"That would be a bad idea," Tamsyn said.

"Why?"

"Taking a portal _through_ a portal?" She shuddered. "Bad things can happen."

"Bad things, huh?" he asked.

She nodded. _"Really_ bad things," she confirmed.

"Such as?"

Tamsyn snorted, but there was no mirth in it. "Turning inside out would be the least of your problems. Imploding the entire world and everything in it?" She shrugged. "It's your call, but if we need to use it to get out of here, you won't be able to take it with you."

"No," the Grey Fox agreed. "But nothing's to prevent me from coming back for it."

Tamsyn had been thinking along similar lines herself. Taking a portal back to Winterhold with her would give her scholars something to work on, to figure out how to duplicate it. This certainly must be one of the "hidden artifacts" the Synod had accused her of hoarding, and part of the magic that her father warned her was disappearing. If the Grey Fox was laying claim to it, however, she couldn't very well insist on taking it from him. She apparently already owed this man much for helping her escape from the Thalmor. But they weren't clear yet.

"Where does this one lead?" she asked now. "I was unconscious when they brought me here."

"The Watchtower at the Arcane University, dear Tamsyn," Cicero said. "We came in through a secret entrance the Grey Fox knew of. We'll be leaving the same way."

In a very short time they found themselves standing in the storage room of the Watchtower. Tamsyn insisted on gagging the Justiciar before they stepped through the portal, to prevent her from crying out for help once they arrived. Argis and Cicero didn't tell her it wouldn't be needed, and the little jester took a vicious glee in tightening the gag severely around the elf's head. Negotiating the ladder down into the tunnels with a bound, unresponsive Thalmor Justiciar wasn't easy or fun, but eventually they made their way back to the Thieves' Guild, where the Snow Elf was placed in an iron cage. The gag was removed.

Tamsyn recast the paralysis one last time, just to make sure the Thalmor Justiciar was secured, and added a large warding spell in a semi-hemisphere around the cage. It glowed with an iridescent light.

"I will be back to check on you in a little bit," Tamsyn promised, knowing the Snow Elf could hear her. "In the meantime, please try to remember that these people here have even less reason to want to keep you alive than Cicero, so I would be quiet and watch what I say, if I were you."

"But you are not me," the Thalmor intoned with loathing.

Tamsyn shrugged. "It's your funeral. I can tell them to leave you alone, but if you provoke them, I won't be responsible for what they do. Oh, and one more thing…you won't be able to penetrate the barrier I've set up around this place, even if you manage to get the blindfold off. It's a special warding I created just now with you in mind." She turned and left the woman to her thoughts and rejoined Cicero and Argis, who were still talking with the Grey Fox.

"Ah, Arch-Mage," the Breton Guildmaster said. "Have you got your prisoner settled?"

"For the moment," Tamsyn said.

"I believe this is yours," he said, pulling the Sanguine Rose out of his cloak. "I found it on one of the Justiciars we killed, and Argis told me it belonged to you."

"Thank you!" the Arch-Mage said gratefully, accepting the Daedric staff back. "I thought I'd lost it forever!" She refrained from asking where he had been hiding it while they had escaped to come here. He _was_ a thief, after all; he'd probably intended to keep it himself. She made a mental note to thank Argis later for his powers of observation.

"What are your intentions regarding her?" the Grey Fox asked, with a nod back to the jail cell.

"Interrogation, of course," Tamsyn said. "I'm hoping I can find out more about what she knows of the Dominion's plans for the next war."

"The next war?" the Grey Fox blinked. "You think there will _be_ a next war?"

"You think there won't be?" Tamsyn countered. "They've already started it. We just don't know it yet; and we won't until they're ready to launch their first, full-scale assault. By then, it will be too late. The Empire will be too weakened to withstand it."

The Guildmaster considered this. "You may be right," he replied. "They barely survived the last war."

"The Dominion, and their Thalmor operatives, have made sure the Empire is too distracted by other problems like the Civil War in Skyrim to pay attention to what they're doing," Tamsyn said.

"She will need to be moved soon," the Grey Fox stated, firmly. "I can't have a Thalmor Justiciar here indefinitely. There's too great a risk that she will overhear something she shouldn't. If she's as important as you think she is the Dominion will soon be looking for her, when they don't find her body at Vilverin. I'll need to get over there as quickly as I can and see what they've left behind. And I need to check in with the team I sent there earlier this evening."

"I understand," Tamsyn nodded. "And I have a plan. It will just take some time to implement. I'm assuming you have a secret way out of here?" she asked. "Maybe two or three?"

"At least that many," the Grey Fox acknowledged with a smile. "But we don't have to do anything immediately. If the Thalmor aren't aware of the attack at Vilverin, we don't want to overplay our hand. As I said, I have every intention of going back there as soon as possible. You and your…bodyguards…are welcome to stay here until I return. While I'm waiting for Reydin to return, perhaps you'll join me for a meal and some…conversation."

"Real food?" Tamsyn said faintly, her green eyes growing huge. "Not just bread and water?"

The Guildmaster laughed. "I think we can do better than that. Please, follow me."

They passed through the side chamber which currently held their prisoner, and Tamsyn spared her a glance while the Thalmor woman stiffened in animosity. Had she not been blindfolded, Tamsyn felt sure she would be glaring daggers at her.

The Guildmaster spoke quietly to two of his associates before leading them through passages that Argis and Cicero remembered well. When they were seated in the Grey Fox's study, one of the guild members brought in food and drink for them. After they had eaten, the Grey Fox asked to speak with Tamsyn privately, and after a nod from her, Cicero and Argis left the study to return to guard their prisoner.

They had only just resettled when Reydin burst in.

"You want to tell me why there's a Thalmor bitch in the middle of our Guild?" he snarled.

"Welcome back to you, too," the Grey Fox said blandly.

"Sorry, Boss," Reydin said, immediately contrite. "It's just that…you know how I feel about them."

"Yes, I know," the Guildmaster said soberly. "'The only good Thalmor is a dead Thalmor.' But as it happens, this one is not my prisoner. The Arch-Mage is responsible for her. Reydin, may I introduce Arch-Mage Tamsyn?" He turned to the Breton girl. "Arch-Mage, this is Reydin Glane, my right-hand man."

"Is he a Nightingale, too?" Tamsyn asked innocently. The effect on the two thieves was almost comical. Reydin half-drew his sword before the Guildmaster made a slicing motion with his hand. The Bosmer put it away, reluctantly, and Tamsyn lowered her hands, which crackled with fire.

"That's the second time you've invoked Nocturnal's…agents," the Grey Fox said seriously. "I would appreciate knowing just how much _you_ know about us." It wasn't a request, or even a question; it was just short of being an order. Fortunately, Tamsyn wasn't inclined to withhold information on this subject.

"You're wearing Nightingale armor," she pointed out to the Breton thief. "Grey Fox you might be, but nobody wears the armor of the Lady of Shadows unless she allows it. Therefore, you must be a Nightingale. Besides, I've seen Brynjolf wearing the same armor from time to time."

"Ah yes," the Grey Fox nodded. "Cicero and Argis let slip that they knew the Riften Guildmaster. It would seem you do as well. How is it that the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold consorts with thieves?"

"I helped him out once," Tamsyn shrugged. "He owes me." She didn't know this man well enough yet to tell him that Brynjolf, in fact, worked for her husband as one of the leaders of an intelligence network still in its infancy. Delphine, of course, spear-headed that effort. The woman might be brash, but she was a brilliant strategist, and she had plenty of connections. Brynjolf had even more. Between the two of them, there was hardly a secret in Skyrim that could be kept from them – except the Big One she and Marcus shared, of course. Only two other people knew that one, and one of them waited for her in the outer chamber.

" _You_ helped _him,"_ the Breton man smiled. "Interesting. I know Brynjolf. Not well, but I know him. The only way people 'help' him is by assisting in his schemes and scams."

"He's a rogue, alright," Tamsyn smirked. "But I think I'm one of the few women to have resisted his charms…and I'm not a member of his Guild."

Something clicked in the Guildmaster's brain and his eyes widened. "It was you," he breathed.

Tamsyn shrugged and nodded, not even pretending to misunderstand.

"What are you talking about, Boss?" Reydin demanded, confused.

The Grey Fox replied, but his eyes never left Tamsyn.

"Two years ago…almost three, now…the Riften Guild was going through a very long dry spell. Their jobs weren't paying out, they lost a few members, everything seemed to be going wrong for them."

"I remember that," Reydin said. "Didn't that one old guy there – what was his name, Devon or Deffin, something like that."

"Delvin," the Guildmaster supplied. "Delvin Mallory."

"Yeah, that was it," Reydin nodded. "Didn't he say he thought they were cursed?"

"Yes," said the Grey Fox slowly. "But something turned around for them. Brynjolf told me later their former Guildmaster, Mercer Frey, had stolen Nocturnal's Key and was stealing from the Guild."

" _WHAT?"_

Reydin sank into the nearest chair, his knees unable to support his weight. A look of scandalized shock crossed his face and stuck there.

"It's true," the Breton Guildmaster said. "Apparently, he'd been doing it for quite some time, and no one ever caught on." He paused and stared hard at Tamsyn. "Then one day, Bryn said, a red-haired Breton girl came to town, and he tried to recruit her. Instead, she turned him down, but tipped him off to what was going on, though she never said how she knew. And when he and Delvin looked into the matter, they uncovered the whole sordid tale, including that Mercer was guilty of Guildmaster Gallus' murder, not the Dunmer Karliah, as everyone believed."

"Well, not everyone," Reydin demurred. "I knew Karliah, and I never thought she killed Gallus. They were lovers, after all. She felt guilty and responsible for his death, but her hand wasn't holding the blade that killed him."

"So you're the 'pretty little mage' who tipped Brynjolf off," the Guildmaster mused now. "Interesting. Very interesting. Tell me, Arch-Mage, how did you know about Mercer Frey?"

"I'm sure you must have heard by now that I'm a Seer," she said dismissively. "But that's not the point here. Yes, I knew about Mercer; yes, I tipped off Brynjolf; yes, I know about the Nightingales. I might even have given Bryn some advice on how to proceed against Mercer without getting the Guild wiped out. That's past history now. What's important is that I find myself in the uncomfortable position of being in your debt, and I don't even know your name. I don't believe you're the same Grey Fox of legend, especially since you're a Breton like me."

"Young you might be," the Guildmaster acknowledged, "but you've got a sharp mind. Either that or you truly _are_ a Seer. Or perhaps the Divines are helping you."

Tamsyn carefully controlled her expression, keeping her face neutral. A man like the Grey Fox seldom missed the slightest body language. It was one way they rose through the ranks to become Guildmaster.

"Let me start by properly introducing myself," he smiled now. A small gesture of trust might pay out big for him in the end, after all. "I am Dante Greyshadow, your host."

Tamsyn accepted his introduction with a nod. "And you already know who I am," she said. "I'm very grateful to you for your help, Master Greyshadow. I'm not sure yet how I'll be able to repay you, but I'm sure you'll think of something when it's most inconvenient for me."

"She _has_ had dealings with thieves, Boss," Reydin smirked.

Dante nodded and smiled at Tamsyn. "Well, fortunately for you, I find information to be of immeasurable value. Perhaps if you could answer some questions I have, we can see about whittling down what you owe me for helping to rescue you from the Thalmor."

Tamsyn was immediately on the alert. This wouldn't be much easier than keeping things from the Dominion; harder, in fact, because she truly _was_ in his debt.

"What do you want to know?" she asked cautiously. "I hope you'll understand that I cannot and will not divulge any information that puts the people I care about at risk."

"Fair enough," Dante shrugged. "Let's start with why the Thalmor are after you."

"That's an easy one," Tamsyn said. "They view me as a threat to the Dominion. I'm the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, and took over when our previous Arch-Mage, Savos Aren, died as a result of Thalmor interference in some research we were conducting."

"That in itself isn't enough to warrant their attention," Reydin commented.

Tamsyn shrugged. "It is when you consider I forbade them from sending an 'advisor' to come and observe what we were studying," she said. "I kept them at bay for four months before my Masters suggested I'd better let them come, or else they'd send students in as spies. They weren't wrong. I'd already routed out one or two. At least the 'advisor' we have now isn't as intrusive as Ancano was. But no scholar likes to conduct research with someone watching over their shoulders. Scholars can be very…protective of their work."

"I'll take your word for that," Dante said blandly. "So why come to Cyrodiil, then?" he inquired. "This is practically the second home of the Dominion, short of the Summerset Isles themselves. Why come to a place filled with people you don't like or trust?"

"I didn't have much choice in the matter," Tamsyn scowled ruefully. "I was invited."

"You could have refused," Reydin pointed out.

"And I would never get another opportunity to find out what they're hiding from us," the Arch-Mage insisted. "For years the Synod has accused Winterhold of hiding and hoarding magical artifacts that they feel should be locked away for…'safe keeping'. Meaning, they get to stockpile the powerful stuff and we get jack-squat. Well, not on my watch."

Reydin mouthed the words 'jack-squat' behind her back to his Guildmaster, who frowned at the unfamiliar phrase.

"So you came down here to find out what _they_ were hiding from you, and like any novice, you blundered right into their trap." Dante tsked reprovingly.

"Maybe so," Tamsyn sniffed in self-defense. "But I proved my point. They _are_ hoarding magic, and they _are_ trying to keep it from everyone but the Dominion. Think about it, Master Greyshadow: if magic disappears from Tamriel due to the influence of the Dominion, then _only_ the Dominion will have magic. Would _you_ want to fight an enemy who can send in invisible, muffled troops? One that can launch walls of frost, balls of exploding flame or call down lightning on your soldiers? Or perhaps one that can raise legions of undead to fight in their place? Every one of them you kill gets raised by his buddy, so their numbers never decrease. And when you lose your people, your enemy raises them, and suddenly you're fighting someone who stood at your back moments before."

"You're not taking into consideration all the trained mages that are already out there," he countered. "If the Emperor put out a call for all able-bodied spell-casters to come to the aid of their country, you'd have plenty of magical fire power to set against the Dominion."

"Not if they wait until our children or grandchildren are the ones doing the fighting," Tamsyn pointed out. "They can afford to wait until no one remembers how to do magic any more except them. It's why they're trying so hard to shut down my College; they've already taken over the Synod, and I have it on good authority that there is no arcane college in Elsweyr. I wouldn't be a bit surprised to find that other institutions of magical learning across Tamriel are also either run by the Thalmor or shut down by them. The Dominion plays the long game, Master Greyshadow, and they do it very well. This civil war waging in Skyrim right now is a direct result of events the Dominion put into motion right after the Great War ended. The whole ban on Talos worshipping was included in the White-Gold Concordat because they _knew_ it wouldn't sit well with the Nords."

"Hmm," the Guildmaster murmured, "you have a point." Dante considered her words carefully. Clearly, the Arch-Mage _had_ thought long and hard about this before making the decision to come down to investigate. It hadn't been just a whim of a young girl thrilled with her new title and flexing her wings.

"What will you do now?" he asked. Her reply surprised him.

"I can't go back to Skyrim yet," Tamsyn admitted. "My work here isn't done. I need to find some of that lost magic to bring it back. The problem is that now I can't go back to the Arcane University. I saw things there that I—" She broke off, almost confessing her unusual origins. "That I only ever heard rumors about," she finished quickly. "Those portals we saw, spell-creation altars, the staff enchanter – they're all part of the magic that's disappearing across Tamriel as a direct result of Dominion interference. If I could bring one of those – _any_ of them – back to Skyrim, I could get my scholars working on figuring out what makes it tick."

"I didn't hear any ticking," Dante said drily.

"I mean, figure out how it operates," Tamsyn said hurriedly. "Like the portals, for example. Maybe we can recreate it, and we could have portals set up in strategic locations around Skyrim. Don't think for one moment that this doesn't give the Dominion a huge edge on coordinating their communications."

"I had already considered that myself," Dante admitted. "And I thought it might make it easier for the Riften Guild to stay in touch with us down here in Cyrodiil. Something like that opens up…business opportunities," he grinned.

A slow smile spread across Tamsyn's face. "I could take one of the pair back to Riften for you," she suggested. "You wouldn't have to make the trip yourself, and my scholars would still be able to study it."

"I don't think Brynjolf would want a bunch of mages cluttering up his Guild," Reydin frowned.

Tamsyn's face fell. "No, I suppose you're right about that. Bryn's been very…useful…to my husband and me," she said. "But I think even _his_ patience has its limits."

"There's that third portal," Dante suggested slyly.

"True," Tamsyn agreed, "but we have no idea where the other end is. It might be somewhere here in town, or it might be the Summerset Isles itself. I certainly don't want an army of Thalmor marching into my College armed to the teeth and itching for a fight."

"Keep the top covered," Dante suggested. "It's upside-down right now. Nothing can come through it. If you put a board or cloth over the face, your scholars can study it without allowing the Dominion access to your College."

Tamsyn chuckled. "Simple solutions to a magical problem, eh?" she grinned. "That just might work."

Dante chose his next words carefully. "It seems strange to me that someone so young, who has come into a position of such power, as you have done, should know so much about the plans of the Dominion."

For a brief moment, Tamsyn bristled. He might as well have just come out and accused her of being a Thalmor collaborator. But the eighty-year-old lady she had once been still lay buried deep inside the young woman she was now. She knew digging when she heard it. Master Greyshadow was curious about her, and more importantly about who was helping her.

"You must realize that I can't reveal the source of my information," she said slowly. "It would be far too risky to divulge that. What I can tell you is that I am doing everything in my power to thwart the Thalmor in their mad, genocidal scheme to rid Nirn of anyone who isn't an Altmer."

"Sign me up," Reydin said suddenly, firmly.

"Reydin?" Dante blinked in surprise.

"Boss, you know how I feel about the Dominion," he said with intensity, "and about the Thalmor in particular. They murdered my entire family – my parents, my siblings, my wife and daughters." He turned to Tamsyn. "If you're going to take them out and you need a stealth archer, you just give the word!"

Tamsyn looked to the Guildmaster nervously. She had already figured out Reydin must be a Nightingale as well, judging from his reaction when she mentioned it. While she would love to have his assistance, and the power of the Cyrodiil Thieves' Guild as well, it wasn't her decision. She couldn't break up the Trinity.

For his part, Dante stared evenly into Reydin's red-orange eyes. The Bosmer was practically trembling with suppressed rage. Yes, he knew too well the personal vendetta his second in command had against the Dominion. He'd been with Reydin the day the wood elf received word of the Thalmor raid on Everglen, a small, remote village north of Woodhearth in Valenwood. Reydin's family lived there, uninvolved with the political machinations of the Dominion in places like Falinesti and Marbruk. None of Reydin's family suspected that a group of Bosmeri rebels against the Dominion, known as the Greenhand, had made Everglen their base of operations. But the Thalmor had found out, and one night razed the village to the ground with fire and blade. Reydin had been in Cyrodiil at the time, negotiating a trading contract with a young antiquities dealer by the name of Lance de Fer, with whom he had established a close relationship. The Black Horse Courier criers called out the news of a 'terrible disaster' in Valenwood – a forest fire that had destroyed an entire village.

Dante still remembered how the Bosmer's dusky skin had paled upon learning the details; he recalled the young elf stumbling away in shock, only to find him in an alley two nights later, drunk out of his mind and stripped of all his valuables. He'd taken him to the Guild, then, and as the years passed he felt each day it had been the best decision of his career to recruit Reydin into their 'cozy little family.'

Inwardly he sighed. He would get no peace now if he didn't throw his lot in with the wood elf. Refusing might lose him his second in command, and a third of the Trinity – though Dante seriously doubted Nocturnal would let Reydin go. It just didn't work that way.

"Alright," he said finally, and saw Reydin visibly relax. "If it means that much to you, we'll negotiate how we can help the Arch-Mage. Though you realize, of course," he said, turning to Tamsyn, "that this only increases your debt to us."

"I'll take that into consideration," Tamsyn nodded, keeping her face as neutral as possible. Inside she was practically jumping with glee. She and Marcus already had Brynjolf and the Riften Guild on their side, working as informants. To have someone right here in Cyrodiil, who could monitor Dominion movements at its source, was too much to have hoped for! "For now, I need to find out as much of the old arcane magics as I can. The Dominion has had the past two hundred years, since the Oblivion Crisis, to squirrel them away somewhere. If Vilverin is any indication, they may be using the old Ayleid ruins as hiding places."

"Squirrel?" Reydin blinked, perplexed.

"A small, furry, long-tailed rodent, native to High Rock," Dante explained. "We called them 'tree rats' when I was a boy. They like to steal things and line their nests with them."

"Ah," the Bosmer thief nodded. "I get it. And you believe the Thalmor are doing the same thing with arcane knowledge?" he asked Tamsyn.

"I do," she replied. "I know there used to be a spell to cure disease; now it's gone and only a potion or the blessing of the gods will get rid of things like rockjoint and ataxia. There also used to be spells that would allow you to carry additional weight, corrode armor or weapons, walk on top of the surface of water, or dispel another's magic, to name a few. They're all gone, and I would really like to get them back."

"If what you say is true," Dante mused, "I can see why. Spells like those, in the hands of the Dominion, would wreak havoc among the Imperial Legion, if it came to a pitched battle." He was silent for several minutes, remembering the spell he had used to open the sealed door in Vilverin. Might there be more spells like that, hidden away somewhere? Straightening, he came to a decision. "Well, then, Arch-Mage, here is what I am prepared to do for you: I will have my people begin searching the Ayleid ruins – carefully, of course. I don't intend to lose people over this, and if the Thalmor have taken up residence in one or more of them that's going to make things more…costly, for all concerned. In return, you and your prisoner will return to Skyrim. I'll see that you get out of the Imperial City safely; after that, you're on your own. I'm returning to Vilverin and the Watchtower shortly to recover the portals. You take the odd one out back to Winterhold with you. I'll be sending one of the pair up to Brynjolf in Riften. He and I will stay in touch with each other regarding matters here. If we find anything of arcane interest, I'll send word through Brynjolf."

"It sounds to me like you're getting the better end of this bargain," Tamsyn complained. "What's to prevent you from keeping all the good stuff for yourself? You could find all kinds of magical things in those ruins and make yourself a tidy profit – more than enough to reduce any supposed 'debt' you think I should owe you."

"But I'm the one taking the risks," the Breton Guildmaster pointed out.

"Risks are the consequences of doing business," Tamsyn shot back. "Every time I enchant an item I run the risk of failure, but I don't make my clients pay for that."

"Then you're not doing business properly," Dante said blandly.

"There has to be a way to even the playing field here," Tamsyn protested in frustration. "I have no intention of allowing you to walk all over me and dictate the terms of our agreement without something that can tip the scales in my favor a bit. There must be something you want that is equal in value to having the Arch-Mage of Winterhold on a leash."

The Breton thief grinned. Leaning forward and whispering in her ear, he watched as her eyes widened.

"You're kidding!" she exclaimed. "Are you serious?"

"Completely," he smirked. "That's my price."

"Mehrune's Razor," she murmured. "How did you hear of that?"

"I've done some reading of my own," he grinned. "I can even give you the name and location of a man I believe knows something about it. Let's leave the question open for now, shall we? I need to set some things in motion, and you need to rest before you return to Skyrim. I'll be back in a little while. Reydin, is Minnow back yet?"

"I haven't seen her, Boss," the Bosmer replied.

"Well, see to the Arch-Mage's comforts, if you would, please. Then I want a full report on how things went at Vilverin."

"Yeah, about that," Reydin hedged. "We lost a couple of people."

"Who?" the Guildmaster demanded, frowning.

"Tharsten and Da'zhir," his second reported. "The Thalmor set fire to the grass and the wind was blowing in their direction. I wasn't able to look for their bodies, but I don't think they made it. At least, I haven't seen them come back yet. Da'zhar is furious and drinking himself into a stupor right now."

"Damn!" the Grey Fox muttered. "What about the others? Janus and Gih-Ja?"

"Gih-Ja's fine," Reydin assured him. "Nothing unsettles her, you know that."

"And Janus?"

"We...may have a problem," Reydin admitted. "When I checked on everyone before we launched our attack, he wasn't where he was supposed to be. He pulled Da'zhar out of position and then bolted. I don't know where he is."

"If he comes back here, I want to see him," Dante growled. "I want to know why he bailed on us before I kill him."

"Take a number," Reydin snorted. "Da'zhar has already claimed his life for the loss of Da'zhir's."

"Fine, then," the Guildmaster said dismissively. "I don't really need to know his reasons that badly. He disobeyed orders and put the lives of others at risk for his negligence. Let Da'zhar have him. Perhaps he'll serve as an example to anyone else who thinks they can disregard the chain of command. In the meantime, once you've settled Lady Tamsyn here, get yourself and a crew over to the Watchtower to pick up that portal. I've marked its location here on the map. Just be careful with it, and keep it covered up." He handed a rolled-up parchment to his second-in-command.

Reydin nodded before escorting Tamsyn back to the main chamber, where Argis and Cicero waited, guarding their prisoner.

"Don't be too upset, Arch-Mage," he informed her with a wink. "I'm sure he'll help you. I've known the Boss to take on plenty of lost causes in the past."

"You're not helping," Tamsyn replied sourly. "I'm still not sure I can trust him."

"You can trust him as far as you would any thief," the second Nightingale said with some irony. "But I'll let you in on a little secret." Here he stopped and leaned in a bit closer. "He hates the Thalmor almost as much as I do. He just might not show it. Getting you out of their hands is a major coup for him, even if no one knows it but us. It's a matter of pride to him that there is nothing anyone can have that he can't take from them if he wants it."

"He's that good?" Tamsyn queried.

Reydin smirked. "I heard he once pickpocketed a Briarheart's briar heart," the wood elf grinned, "just to see if it could be done."

"You're kidding me!" Tamsyn exclaimed, wide-eyed.

Reydin shook his head. "I wouldn't joke about a thing like that."

"What happened to the Briarheart?"

Reydin shrugged, still smirking. "Fell over dead, of course."

Tamsyn was quiet the rest of the way back to the main chamber. _What sort of man have I indebted myself to?_ she wondered.

Argis and Cicero rose when she approached. Reydin gave a small bow and left to make arrangements for his visit to the Watchtower.

"Has she spoken?" Tamsyn asked Cicero quietly.

The little Imperial shook his head. "No, sweet Tamsyn, she hasn't. Is everything alright? You don't look happy."

"I'm not," she admitted. "The Guildmaster has agreed to help us…but for a price I'm not sure I want to pay."

"What kind of price?" Argis rumbled dangerously.

"Not…that," Tamsyn said hastily. "He doesn't want my body, if that's what you're thinking." She decided not to mention Mehrune's Razor. The fewer who knew about the Daedric artifact, the better, as far as she was concerned.

Argis subsided, only marginally satisfied.

"He basically wants an open-ended contract where he can call in favors on me at any time," she explained, "while I would far rather have him help us because we have a…common goal." She threw a glance at the Justiciar, who appeared to be sleeping. Tamsyn wasn't fooled, though. She was confident the Snow Elf was awake and alert behind the blindfold.

"That isn't how the world works, dear Tamsyn," Cicero said, sympathetically. "Men like the Grey Fox only understand the bottom line: what's in it for them. Cicero knows this from personal experience. He was once very much like our host."

"But you're not like that anymore," Tamsyn replied.

"Are you sure?" Cicero grinned wickedly. Then the grin faded and his voice dropped to a normal register. "Tamsyn, meeting you was a turning point in my life," he said seriously. "If I hadn't met you, if you hadn't forced your way into the Sanctuary and held me hostage in my own home—"

Here Tamsyn began to protest, but he waved her off. "You did, young lady, don't deny it," he smiled gently. "But if it hadn't been for that, I would have slipped further and further into the darkness of my own mind. I was perilously close to losing my self forever until you came along. It would not have been very much longer before I would have snapped completely and gone on a delightfully bloody murder spree – and I wouldn't even have been paid to do it!" He gave a lop-sided smile. "If not for you, I would never have met Argis here," he said, patting his lover's leg. "Or been included into the wonderful family you and my Brother Marcus have been raising. I can never thank you enough for that."

"Cicero's right," Argis agreed, "but I don't think the Grey Fox is as dangerous as you, Cis," he teased.

"Most assuredly not!" the jester said indignantly, his voice rising back up to its customary squeak. "Cicero is a _professional_ , after all!"

"I guess you're right," the Arch-Mage acknowledged. "At least, with regard to our host, anyway. The thing that concerns me most is that I can only _hope_ he'll share what he might find with me, rather than taking it to the highest bidder. I have no way of ensuring he reports everything to me."

"It's business, though, isn't it?" Argis asked. "I mean, if you've got an exclusive contract with him, he's not going to risk his reputation by treating you unfairly."

"I don't have an exclusive contract, though," Tamsyn said ruefully. "At least, not unless I'm willing to be at his beck and call until the end of time."

"Worrying about it won't make it go away," Cicero said. "Perhaps pretty Tamsyn just needs to sleep. Cicero is certain you haven't slept well since you were captured."

"I haven't," Tamsyn admitted. "And again, you're probably right. I'm sure I'll find a solution when I've rested."

"Where are they going?" Argis asked, nodding toward the Grey Fox and his second.

"Guild business, I assume," Tamsyn said, throwing a pointed look toward their prisoner. "He said he'd be back in a while. So I'm going to get some sleep. Point me toward a bedroll, Argis."

One was found for her, and Tamsyn threw herself into it, exhausted but not quite as relaxed as she hoped she would be. There was still the problem of what to do with Sylfaen Telperion. She couldn't just release the Justiciar after leaving the Guild, and taking her back to Skyrim didn't seem like a good option either. She wouldn't kill her in cold blood, though she knew Cicero wouldn't have a problem with that course of action.

 _She's a Snow Elf._ Tamsyn still couldn't believe it. What was a Snow Elf doing in the ranks of the Thalmor? Justiciar Telperion herself had said that only Altmer were inducted into the Thalmor. Clearly, she had hidden behind the robes and the mask for so long that none of her cohorts knew her true nature. It made sense, when Tamsyn came to think of it. If one is being persecuted by one race or organization, the best place to hide is where no one would think to look. In Sylfaen's case, that happened to be within the very same faction that had subjugated her people.

She wondered how the Snow Elf felt about her lengthy deception. Did she worry every day that she might be found out? She must have spent centuries building up her façade, taking her meals in private, securing herself within a private sleeping chamber for the times when she needed to rest. How did she feel when she was called upon to 'interrogate' prisoners? How could she justify the torture she inflicted on others, when she must have been a recipient herself at one time? Or did the centuries inure her to the pain of others?

Tamsyn didn't believe that. She hadn't been in the Justiciar's mind for very long, but found herself still sifting through the overwhelming tide of emotions that had swept over her. Rage had certainly been one of the more dominant passions; rage directed at her for penetrating the mental armor she had so carefully built around herself; rage at the Dominion, surprisingly, and at the Thalmor in particular. She hated them, and yet she was a part of them. Such a contradiction piqued Tamsyn's interest. That would explain the sense of self-loathing Tamsyn had found within the Snow Elf's mind – the denial of her identity as a Justiciar. She knew what she was, but hated herself for it.

There was also a profound sadness and a heart-wrenching sense of loss. Tamsyn almost wept herself at the most powerful emotion she'd encountered in Sylfaen's mind. She had seen much, endured much, and lost much more. She felt isolated and completely alone.

 _But she's not,_ Tamsyn realized. And that sparked an idea in her mind. It wasn't a perfect solution, and she knew that at this point, the Justiciar would never accept it, but it wouldn't hurt to try.

* * *

"Have you decided what to do about our unwilling guest?" the Grey Fox asked Tamsyn upon his return from Vilverin. He seemed in an unusually good mood, and Tamsyn noticed several Varla stones were laid out on a nearby table. She wondered what else he had found, but felt it might be pointless to ask. Thieves didn't give up their secrets easily, after all. She knew that much from trying to get Brynjolf to believe her about Mercer Frey.

"I believe so," she nodded now. Her own rest had restored some of her perceptions, and she was prepared, she felt, for what might come next. "We'll have to take her back to Skyrim, of course. We can't risk turning her loose and having her run right back to the Dominion."

"I'd appreciate that," Dante said drily. "I'm finally getting this place looking the way I like it. I'd hate to have to start over again someplace else. "When will you be leaving?"

"In the morning," Tamsyn replied. "Traveling with a bound and gagged prisoner will be problematic, and especially if she's dressed like a Thalmor Justiciar."

"We've got clothes here you can use," the Guildmaster said. "And as I mentioned before, we can get you out of the City unseen. Will you be heading back to Bruma?"

"The pass into Skyrim is north of there, so yes, we'll have to head in that direction," Tamsyn nodded. "I don't much like the idea of Argis lugging the Justiciar over his shoulder the whole long way, but it can't be helped."

"I might be able to assist with that, as well," Dante said pleasantly. "I can arrange to have a horse and wagon waiting on the other side of Lake Rumare for you. I'll even ensure that the third portal will be secured in it for you."

"It's kind of you to help us like this," Tamsyn smiled. "Thank you."

"I consider it an investment in a mutually beneficial future," the Guildmaster reasoned. "I'll be keeping my ear to the ground concerning you and your friends, Arch-Mage," he continued with mock severity. "I'll let you know if I hear of anything that might interest you…or if I need anything."

Tamsyn ignored the implied taunt. "What did you learn from the things you found in Vilverin?" she asked, curious.

"I'm still sifting through the information I picked up," he assured her. "I'll send a report to your College – sealed, of course, and for your eyes only – if there's anything in it that would aid your cause."

And with that, Tamsyn realized she must be satisfied.

They left in the morning, with the Grey Fox leading the way out of the tunnels into the open air outside the City. Tamsyn recognized Lake Rumare spreading around the island upon which the City had been built, and saw ahead of her, slightly to her right, the ruins of Vilverin, which Master Greyshadow and his Guild had recently plundered.

Over Argis' shoulder, Justiciar Telperion's muffled voice attempted to scream and throw insults at them, but her gag prevented anyone from understanding her.

"Quiet, you," Argis warned, jostling her. A slight _mmph!_ was their only response. She had been paralyzed again, blindfolded and bound as well as gagged, all at Cicero's insistence. The jester was taking no chances their prisoner could escape. Personally, he preferred a more permanent solution to silencing their only loose end, but pretty Tamsyn was in charge, and for reasons best known to herself alone, she had declared they would be taking the Justiciar with them. Argis grumbled something about being sworn to carry her burdens, but otherwise hauled the elf woman onto his back and strode easily through the tunnels with her.

A small skiff was waiting to take them across the lake, and the Arch-Mage and her crew clambered in. Argis unceremoniously dumped the Justiciar into the bottom of the boat. A muffled squeal of protest came from the Snow Elf, now dressed in a simple blue dress with a tan corset laced over it. Plain tan knee-high boots were on her feet and a pale blue cowl was thrown over her head, obscuring her features. She hadn't changed clothes willingly, but while a paralyzed person was unable to move on their own volition – except for being able to speak – it didn't prevent anyone else from shifting them around.

Tamsyn was dressed in a simple belted tunic of non-descript brown with ankle boots of the same color. A mob-cap of dingy white covered her red hair. Argis wore his customary steel armor, but Cicero – after _much_ cajoling and pleading on both Tamsyn's and Argis' part – had put aside his jester's motley in favor of a simple blue merchant's tunic.

"This will _not_ protect Cicero if we should meet unfriendlies on the way back home!" he groused.

"It's only for a little while, Cis," Argis insisted. "Just until we get away from the Imperial City. Once we're back in Skyrim you can put the motley back on. I'll help you, if you need it." The big Nord gave a sly wink, and Cicero had finally capitulated.

"Well, Master Greyshadow," Tamsyn said before she stepped into the boat herself, "it seems I'll be greatly in your debt for some time to come. I can't say that I'm entirely happy with that, but I do owe you my life. I know I can speak for Marcus when I say the two of us will entertain any…professional enterprises you might venture forth. I can't say we'll agree, but we will consider them."

"I won't ask you to do anything more than you feel comfortable doing, Lady Tamsyn," the Breton Guildmaster acknowledged. "You, your esteemed husband and I are in a unique position to effect some real change in Tamriel in the coming months. Cicero, at least, still owes me a favor he has yet to repay."

"And Cicero will be most happy to discharge that debt just as soon as he is assured sweet Tamsyn is safely back home," the jester replied, smiling broadly. There was an almost unholy gleam in his eyes that unnerved Tamsyn, and she knew better than to ask questions. This was obviously a business arrangement between the two men, and it was nothing in which she could interfere.

"Let me say it has been a pleasure meeting you, Arch-Mage," Dante said now, taking her hand and kissing the back of it. "I look forward to our continued partnership towards our…common cause. And please consider my…personal request," he added quietly, for her ears only. He winked, bowed and left them, disappearing back into the tunnel.

It was early morning, and the coolness of the night was giving way to the coming heat of the day. Mist was rising off the lake as Argis rowed them across, hiding their escape from prying eyes that might look too closely. To the casual observer, they were simply a group of travelers crossing the lake on the most direct route to the north road towards Bruma.

The horse and cart were waiting as promised near the small dock Argis pulled up to. An Argonian thief stood near the cart, waiting on them.

"Gih-Ja," she said, by way of introduction. "The portal's in the bottom of the cart. Food and supplies are in there as well. The Boss suggests you go around Bruma, rather than through. The city guards there charge a tariff on any goods coming through town, especially if you're going on to Skyrim. They'll probably ask too many questions." Her golden eyes crinkled. "How you get through the pass without the Legion inspecting the cart, I'll leave up to you." She gave them a nod and left, climbing into the skiff to row it back to the Imperial isle.

A quarter hour later, Tamsyn, her companions and prisoner were on their way up the Silver Road to Bruma. Argis handled the reins, and Tamsyn fervently hoped they would not meet any Legionnaires who might question why they had a bound and gagged elf woman in the back of their cart. They were fortunate, however, and made it to Bruma before the sun set.

"Do we keep going?" Argis asked.

"Yes," Tamsyn said, though she was weary in every bone. Despite how easy it sounded, riding in a wagon for six to eight hours straight was not comfortable in the least, especially on dirt roads and cobblestones. "There's the old Blades fortress, Cloud Ruler Temple, north of Bruma, near the pass," she explained. "We may be able to stay there tonight."

"But that place has been abandoned for almost thirty years!" Cicero protested. "The Thalmor killed every Blade that lived there. They say their ghosts still haunt the place!" He shuddered.

"If that's true, we'll have to make peace with them," Tamsyn shrugged. "Or fight them, though I'd prefer not to do that. I have no quarrel with the Blades."

"They might have one with us, though," Argis pointed out. "Especially since we've got _her_ with us." He jerked his head back toward the Justiciar, whose body posture stiffened in resentment.

"We'll just have to take that chance," Tamsyn said. "I don't want to negotiate the pass in the dark. Let's push on to Cloud Ruler Temple."

Another hour of steadily rising terrain and rough, overgrown roads brought them to the enormous stone fortress known as the last stronghold of the Blades in Cyrodiil before the Thirtieth of Frostfall when the Aldmeri Dominion launched their Great War against human-kind.

Tamsyn drew in a slow breath of awe. Seeing it in the game was one thing. Seeing it here and now, in the light of two moons, was far more impressive. The huge stone towers that flanked the main gate rose well over a hundred feet high. Rust covered the iron that bound the ten-foot-thick, charred wooden doors together, and weeds had taken root between the cobbles that led up to them.

Along the wall, in either direction, Tamsyn saw pitted areas, as if from the impact of battle. Loose stones had tumbled to the ground in those areas, still discolored with the scorching of fire, thirty years later.

"Should we go in?" Argis asked apprehensively. He didn't much care for the idea of ghosts himself, but if this was what Lady Tamsyn had decided, he would defend her with his life, if need be.

"I'm not standing out here on the doorstep all night," Tamsyn snapped, with more irritation than was truly warranted. She was tired and cold and hungry, and just wanted to be in out of the weather. "Let's see if the gates open."

Argis handed the reins to Cicero and jumped down, crossing the short distance to the massive wooden doors. He grabbed one of the iron rings and gave it a tug. Nothing happened, so he set his feet and pulled harder. Still, the door remained shut.

"Is it locked?" Tamsyn called.

"If it is, Cicero can get it undone," the little jester promised. He wrapped the reins around the side rail of the bench seat and leaped down. Ten minutes later, he was still fiddling with the lock as Tamsyn shivered in the icy winds that swept down from the Jeralls.

"No luck?" she asked as Cicero growled in frustration over the fifteenth broken lockpick.

"This must be a master lock," he groused. "Cicero can't find the sweet spot!"

The 'sweet spot', Tamsyn knew, was the narrow sliver of opportunity for getting the tumblers to turn. She knew she wouldn't be able to help. Cicero was far better at opening locks than she could hope to be.

A garbled, muffled voice came from the bottom of the cart, and Tamsyn glanced down. It sounded like the Justiciar was trying to say something intelligent, as opposed to simply spewing vitriol. She removed the gag.

"You were saying something?" she inquired.

"Phew!" The Snow Elf spat cotton fibers off her tongue and grimaced. "I said, 'if I wasn't incapacitated, I could get that lock open for you.'"

"Why would you help us?" Cicero growled suspiciously.

"Like you I have no desire to remain out here exposed to the elements all night," the Thalmor said reasonably. "If there is shelter to be found within, I would be more than happy to cooperate in gaining access to it."

"I don't trust her," Argis rumbled. "She's up to something."

"Oh, please," Justiciar Telperion drawled. "And just what do you think I'm capable of doing to three of you at once? You vastly overestimate my capabilities."

An almost feral growl came from the big Nord, but Tamsyn hushed him.

"If you unlock the door for us I won't gag you again," Tamsyn said reasonably. "But you'll have to submit to being blindfolded and bound again."

"A small price to pay for the privilege of being able to breathe more easily," the Thalmor said snidely. "Very well. I will consent to the indignity, if only to be able to get some circulation back into my arms and legs."

"We will be watching you, elf," Cicero said warningly.

"Of that I have no doubt, you repulsive little man," she sniffed.

Cicero glared at her, but kept one hand near Stabby as Tamsyn removed the blindfold and bindings and helped the Justiciar out of the cart. For several moments the Thalmor simply leaned against the cart until her legs regained control of themselves and she was able to walk without stumbling. She carefully kept her hands at her sides, but twisted and shook them to bring the blood back into them.

"Come on, hurry it up," Argis grumbled, as Cicero proffered a few lockpicks to her.

"Clearly you've never been bound up and thrown into a cart to be jounced over hill and dale for eight straight hours," the elf woman sneered. "I can't cast the spell with hands that won't respond."

Alarmed, Cicero snatched back the lockpicks and drew Stabby. "The Thalmor bitch never said she would cast a spell!" he howled, ready to spring at her.

"Cicero, no!" Tamsyn shouted, diving between them. "It's alright. I know what she's going to do." She turned to face the Justiciar. "Do you understand me?" she demanded sternly. "I _know_ what you're going to do. Make sure it's the _only_ thing you do."

The Snow Elf stared for a long moment into the Arch-Mage's eyes, then nodded slowly. "I understand," she said, "and I promise I will only cast a spell to open the lock."

The two men remained ready to strike if the Justiciar attempted anything, but true to her word, she cast a single spell at the door, and they heard a faint _click_ from the other side.

"Your prisoner once more, Arch-Mage," she said blandly when she finished, putting her hands behind her back to be bound once more.

As Argis heaved one of the heavy doors open, Cicero bound the elf's hands and jerked the blindfold over her head again. He clambered back onto the wagon and guided it through the narrow opening that half of the opened gates offered.

Tamsyn guided the Justiciar inside and Argis closed the door behind them. Cicero found the stables, and together he and Argis unhitched the horse and secured him in a stall for the night.

Once more, Tamsyn was struck by the sheer beauty and majesty that had been Cloud Ruler Temple. The sweeping, curving rooflines of the main temple were reminiscent of feudal Japan, and the wide plaza and practice area gave the entire place a quiet, meditative aura. The view over the battlements to the south gave a sprawling vista of most of Cyrodiil, and had it been broad daylight, Tamsyn felt certain she might see Lake Rumare in the far distance, glimmering in the sun.

But it was night; it was cold, and the winds whistled and moaned around the eaves of the Temple, calling to mind all too clearly the tragedy that had played out here, thirty years before. If she looked hard enough, Tamsyn saw the evidence of the battle that had taken place here. Skeletal remains were scattered everywhere, weeds and grass growing through bones barely covered with tattered cloth, rotted leather and rusted steel, but there was not a skull to be seen. Tiles had fallen from the roofs of the buildings, leaving gaping holes exposing the interiors to wind and weather.

What must those valiant Blades have thought, she wondered, when they realized all was lost? It saddened her, and all the more so because she had met Esbern and liked the old man. He had been one of the lucky ones.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, Tamsyn and her prisoner waited for Cicero and Argis to join them before venturing up to the main Temple itself. The lock on the door here was broken and the door barely hung on rusted hinges, allowing them to enter the building and breathe a sigh of relief. It was still cold, and cobwebs hung thickly everywhere. Remnants of once-fine carpeting covered the wooden floors which creaked and groaned as they made their way inside. There wasn't a piece of furniture that wasn't burned, gouged or broken. Cicero hurried to find enough wood for Argis to light a fire in the fireplace at the far end of the hall.

"We'll sleep here in the hall," Tamsyn decided. "It's only for one night, and it's easier than trying to warm up several rooms. Besides, we'll need to stand watches."

"Are you that afraid of ghosts?" the Justiciar mocked.

"It's not ghosts I'm worried about," Tamsyn snapped. "Mind what you say, or I may change my mind about that gag."

"Yes, of course," the elf woman replied meekly. "I'm…sorry."

Tamsyn wasn't fooled by the Justiciar's acquiescence. She knew every waking thought in the woman's mind was how she could escape. After all, it's what she would do – had done – in her place. They quickly set up an indoor camp, laying out their bedrolls brought in from the cart and preparing a hot meal over the fire. Tamsyn hand-fed the Justiciar, who remained bound, and she could feel the resentment oozing from the woman over the apparent helplessness of her situation. She set up a quick schedule for watches with the two men, and Cicero insisted on taking the first watch. Tamsyn extracted a solemn vow from him that he would not harm the Justiciar.

"Cicero promises, sweet Tamsyn," he grumbled, "but if a ghost attacks, Cicero is throwing the Justiciar in front of it."

* * *

 _She strode through the halls of Cloud Ruler Temple, heading to the Grand Master's quarters. The Blades who passed her nodded in greeting and called out welcome to her. She had just returned from another successful raid on a Thalmor outpost. She was dreaming. She knew this, even while it felt so real._

" _Report, Captain?" the Grand Master asked. Try as she might, she could not bring his face into focus._

" _The outpost is cleared, sir," she smiled. "We interrogated several Dominion operatives and recovered some rather important papers I think you'll want to see." She handed over a satchel, which the Grand Master opened, pulling out a sheaf of papers. He scanned through them quickly before turning to her._

" _Excellent, Captain!" he praised. "The Emperor will have to believe us now! He won't be able to deny the evidence of his own eyes! Good work!"_

" _Will there be anything else, sir?" she asked._

" _At the moment, no," the Grand Master said. "Return to your regular duties. We have several new recruits in training out on the practice grounds. I'd like you to give me your opinion as to which ones show the most promise."_

" _I'll be happy to take a look at them sir," she replied, saluting. "With your permission."_

 _Things shifted, and she was outside, watching raw recruits hack and slash at each other with wooden swords and wicker shields. They should be made of steel, she knew, but the Blades were falling out of favor. The young Emperor no longer supported them, or valued their existence, and she could hear the Grand Master say, "We have to keep vigilant against the Dominion. They are preparing for war, whether Titus Mede acknowledges it or not."_

 _Something changed, and she found herself at the top of the battlements, shouting orders to raw recruits completely ill-prepared to fight against an assault of this magnitude. Looking out over the wall, she saw a sea of gleaming green and gold armor, studded here and there with black-robed Thalmor Justiciars who lobbed fireballs and waves of ice at them. At the front of the mass of mer were raised bodies of men and elves that had already perished, unable to rest until they were cut down to dust._

 _She realized she was weeping, but could not give in to despair. Cloud Ruler Temple would not fall, as long as there was breath in her body._

 _The gates crashed open and waves of the enemy flooded in. She saw men and women she knew, whose faces she couldn't clearly see, being cut down in front of her. Most of them were young and had not yet finished their training. They fought valiantly, but the end was inevitable. One by one, she saw Dominion soldiers cut off the heads of the fallen, and she screamed in rage and despair._

 _She found herself in the main hall, unsure how she got there, fighting back to back with the Grand Master as the number of remaining Blades dwindled._

" _This is the end, Captain," he told her. "I need you to do one thing for me."_

" _Anything, sir!" she replied calmly, though she fought Altmer with the fury of a daedra._

" _I need you to wake up." He grabbed her shoulder and shook her. "WAKE UP!"_

 _She felt the press of cold steel against her throat._

* * *

Tamsyn awoke, and the sensation of steel against her throat didn't go away. At first she thought she had only dreamed she woke up, but she heard the Thalmor Justiciar's voice purr in her ear.

"You sleep very soundly for someone in the presence of danger, Arch-Mage. I'm so glad you decided to join our little party."

Looking around swiftly for her two companions, she saw Argis lying stiffly on the floor and knew exactly what had happened to him. Cicero was stunned and reeling. This didn't make sense. What in blazes had happened while she was sleeping?

"I love a good party," Tamsyn gulped. "Do you mind telling me what happened? What's wrong with Cicero?"

"Ugh!" the Thalmor snorted. "That creepy little bastard had the audacity to try and stop me from getting to you. He's not nearly as resilient against mental attacks as you are, Arch-Mage. You should take that for the compliment it is."

"And I assume you paralyzed Argis?"

"Very observant," the Snow Elf sneered. "No wonder you're the Arch-Mage." She flipped Tamsyn over onto her stomach and put a knee on her back as she swiftly bound the Breton girl's hands behind her. _How had the elf gotten free?_ Tamsyn wondered. Roughly, she was pulled to her feet.

"So what happens now?" Tamsyn asked carefully. That dagger had returned, and was far too close to her jugular for her to feel as relaxed as she pretended to be.

"Now we turn right around and head back to Bruma," the Justiciar said. "From there we can travel instantly back to the Imperial City, thanks to Dominion ingenuity, and I can report back to my superiors about your lovely little network of thieves and cut-throats. If you're lucky, they will only kill you."

 _I was right,_ Tamsyn thought obliquely. _They_ do _have portals in the major cities. Probably in the Ayleid ruins as well._

"What about Cicero and Argis?" Tamsyn asked, afraid of the answer.

"I don't need them," the Thalmor woman said. "I only need you, Arch-Mage. These two are superfluous. They die."

"No!" Argis managed to gasp out. "Cis—"

"Wha—" the jester mumbled, still stunned.

"Please, don't hurt them!" Tamsyn pleaded. "Let them go. I'll come with you peacefully, I promise."

"Not an option," the Justiciar replied smoothly. "This will only take a moment, so please bear with me."

She crossed the hall and raised her dagger to strike down the helpless Nord and Tamsyn played the only card she had.

"If you kill them I will never tell you what I know about the Snow Elves in Skyrim," she shouted.

Instantly the hand froze in mid-strike, and the Justiciar turned back to Tamsyn.

"How _dare_ you!" she hissed. "There _are_ no more Snow Elves in Skyrim, or indeed in Tamriel. There are only Falmer now. I am the last of my race."

"That's not true," Tamsyn said steadily, looking the elf woman in the eyes. "I know of one enclave that survived the Atmoran invasion and the betrayal of the Dwemer. But if you harm my friends, you will never find out where they are."

The Thalmor Justiciar strode across the room and the dagger flashed out once more, stopping just short of slicing through the delicate skin under the Arch-Mage's ear.

"You are a liar," she said in a dangerous tone. "I have had nearly three thousand years to look for them. Don't you think I would have found them by now?"

"You've been in hiding for nearly three thousand years," Tamsyn pointed out. "How thoroughly could you have looked? And I'm not lying. I might prevaricate, withhold information or misdirect, but I don't lie."

Slowly the dagger fell away from her throat and Tamsyn breathed an inward sigh of relief.

"Very well," Justiciar Telperion said slowly. "For the sake of argument, let's say that I believe you. Why would you tell me this?"

"Because I don't believe you like the Thalmor any more than I do," Tamsyn replied simply. "I've been inside your mind, remember? You hid from them by becoming one of them, but deep down, it's not who you are. Somewhere under the layers of deception is the Snow Elf, Sylfaen Telperion, who wants to hide away from the Altmer someplace they will never find her. And I can help you do that."

For a long moment, the Justiciar stared into her eyes. Suddenly Tamsyn found herself twirled roughly away from the elf woman, and she closed her eyes, expecting the short, sudden stab of pain that would end it all.

 _Marcus, my love, good-bye!_ she thought.

Her hands fell to her side as the dagger sliced through the bindings. Rubbing her wrists, the Arch-Mage turned to face the Thalmor.

"You'd better not be lying about this," the Justiciar threatened. "I know who your thieving friends are, and I will make sure they pay for the insult they have given the Dominion. Now, where are the Snow Elves?"

"I will take you to them," Tamsyn said, "but you have to let Argis and Cicero go. That's my price."

"Just tell me where they are," the elf woman demanded. "I will look for them after I've taken you back to the Imperial City."

Tamsyn remained silent. After a long moment, Justiciar Telperion gave an exasperated sigh.

"Fine," she snapped. "You will take me to them, then. Dawn is not far off. We'll leave as soon as there's enough light to see by. Your…bodyguards…are free to go. But make no mistake, Arch-Mage," she warned. "You are still my prisoner."

 _We'll see about that,_ Tamsyn thought wryly. _A lot can happen between here and the Forgotten Vale._

Several minutes later, Argis recovered from the paralysis spell the Justiciar had thrown at him. As he and Tamsyn helped Cicero – who was still woozy – to the cart, he gave her a quick synopsis of the attack.

"She got the drop on us, Lady Tamsyn," he apologized quietly. The Justiciar watched them from several feet away, so he kept his voice low. "I'm sorry. Cicero put the bindings on her before we settled for the night, and he took first watch. When he woke me up for my shift, she seemed to be asleep, so I didn't think anything of it. She even lay like that for an hour or so before suddenly she leaped up, hands free, ripped off the blindfold and hit me with the spell."

"Cicero tried to help," the little jester moaned. "Ohhh…my head…"

"Take it easy, Cis," Argis soothed, concerned. "You're gonna be okay. Anyway, she gave him a funny look, and he just sort of keeled over. He's better now, but for a long time I was frantic, because he just sat there, swaying and dizzy."

"She used some sort of psychic blast on him," Tamsyn explained. "She did the same thing to me, when I was being held in Vilverin."

"Cicero…will kill her…" the red-haired Imperial whispered, but there was no conviction in the declaration.

"No, you dear little man," Tamsyn crooned. "You and Argis are going to go back to Skyrim and let Marcus know what's happened here, and tell him that I'm going to be fine, just delayed in coming home for a few days. Then I need you to deliver the portal to Master Tolfdir at Winterhold. Tell him I said to get the scholars working on it right away. Stress the importance of keeping the top of it blocked."

"Thane Marcus isn't going to be happy about us leaving you alone here," Argis grumbled.

"I told you, I'll be fine," Tamsyn insisted. "The Justiciar isn't going to kill me."

"How can you be sure of that?"

Tamsyn shrugged. "I've been inside her mind. I know what makes her tick now. Just tell him I'm taking her to a place in Haafingar, near the border of High Rock," she whispered. "If all goes well, I'll be home in about a week."

"And if it doesn't go well?"

"Let's not borrow trouble, okay?" Tamsyn insisted. "Off you go. See if you can get through the pass without the Legion inspecting the cart."

Reluctantly, Argis nodded and climbed aboard the wagon. Tamsyn found the lever that opened the gates and pulled it to let them out. Argis turned back once to look at her standing in the open gate of Cloud Ruler Temple. Worry and dissatisfaction was pasted all over his handsome, scarred face before he turned back to pay attention to the path that led back down to the Silver Road.

"And now, Arch-Mage," Justiciar Telperion said, coming up to her. "Suppose we begin by getting pointed in the right direction. Where are we headed?"

"The far northwestern corner of Skyrim," Tamsyn said, still staring after the cart.

"And I suppose you have a suggestion how you're going to explain to the Imperial soldiers at the pass our purpose for crossing the border?" The elf woman sniffed. "It seems to me a bit short-sighted letting a perfectly good cart ride away without us in it."

Tamsyn turned back to face her antagonist. "We have a long way to go," Tamsyn said. "It would help if you kept the sniping to a minimum. I'm doing this to help you, believe it or not. And we're not taking the road through the pass. I thought you'd like to avoid anyone seeing someone as distinguishable as you. You know, just in case your cronies back there in the Imperial City wonder why you haven't reported back in."

"I have a perfectly logical explanation for my absence," the elf woman said hotly. "I was kidnapped!"

"Yes, but instead of going back, we're heading off to northwestern Skyrim so you can find that enclave of Snow Elves I know about. I'm sure the Aldmeri Dominion would _love_ to know that some of your people are still around."

The Justiciar opened her mouth to argue, but shut it almost immediately. She simmered helplessly. The Arch-Mage had a point she couldn't deny.

"I thought not," Tamsyn said smugly. "Now, the quickest way I know through the Jeralls is near the Shrine of Hermaeus Mora. It won't be easy going," she warned. "There will probably be deep snow, frost trolls, perhaps even a dragon or two. We risk bad weather, running out of food and freezing to death in the mountains. Still want to go?"

"If only to prove you wrong, so I can be justified in killing you," the Justiciar gritted. "Lead on."

Tamsyn hid a private smile. She didn't fool herself. This would be a dangerous trip, and the natural disasters weren't nearly as worrisome as the temperament of her traveling companion. Even should they succeed in reaching the Forgotten Vale, she knew they would still have to deal with the Falmer. And then there were Vyrthur and Gelebor to consider: how would Justiciar Telperion react learning the 'enclave' amounted to just two Snow Elves, one of whom was a vampire?

She gave herself a mental shake. _We'll cross that bridge when we get to it,_ she thought. _A lot can happen between now and then._

She pasted a smile she didn't feel on her face and led the way down from Cloud Ruler Temple, turning southwest to follow the game trails across the countryside, eventually to meet up with the unnamed road that would take them to Applewatch, and from there to the Shrine of Hermaeus Mora. Not for the first time she wondered if she was doing the right thing, but she was committed now, and she still believed strongly that she could convince the Justiciar to leave the Dominion and abdicate a way of life that had clearly been abhorrent to her.

As the sun began to climb higher into the sky and the day grew warmer, the Thalmor woman began to complain – loudly – about the terrain, her clothes, the growing heat and her traveling companion in general. Tamsyn sighed. It was going to be a long trip.

* * *

 _[Author's Note: This chapter was quite a bit harder for me to write, as it is all original material – with the exception of canon characters, of course. I know how Tamsyn and Sylfaen will get there, and a few things that will happen along the way, but for now we must leave them in transit._

 _In the next chapter we return to Marcus and Serana, who need to find an Ancestor Glade and perform a sacred ritual to gain the Sight needed to read the Elder Scrolls – and don't think that doesn't have Marcus concerned. Events are accelerating, however, as it soon becomes obvious they aren't the only ones looking for answers in the Glade. Thanks for staying with me!]_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

 _[A quick note, here before I get into this next chapter. I would like to thank everyone who has read "Into the Darkness" so far and given me some very good points to consider, especially Ms. Collins, 115SecretsToUnveil, and Pietersielie. Also, a guest named James suggested an idea where this story could lead. Thank you for your idea, James; it's interesting, but I think I would like to see you develop it in your own way, with your own characters. I don't think it will work here, because of things I have set in motion which are not immediately apparent, but will become so if you continue reading. Thank you all for your comments, and for staying with me.]_

* * *

It had taken quite some time for Marcus and Serana to find the Ancestor Glade. Located high up in the Jeralls, south of Falkreath, it was not an easy place to reach. Odahviing was only able to bring them to the foot of the mountain; even from his back they couldn't see a place for the great red dragon to land that wouldn't require mountaineering gear to get down from.

"You're sure it's there, Odahviing?" Marcus had asked more than once as they circled the peak.

"Unless some foolish _joor_ has come and filled it in," the dragon snorted, a puff of smoke escaping his nostrils, "I am certain the place you seek is there, _Dovahkiin."_

Seeing no other options, Marcus and Serana had the crimson drake set them down and began the arduous climb up the side of the mountain. The three Elder Scrolls were strapped securely to Marcus' back. He was taking no chances that they would come loose and rattle down the mountainside.

The rain had turned to sleet, which became snow, and Marcus was glad he had grabbed a couple of fur cloaks from Fort Dawnguard before they left. Serana didn't seem to mind the cold, but Marcus was taking no chance of hypothermia for either of them, even if the Nord girl _was_ a vampire.

They lost the light before they reached the place where Marcus thought the Glade would be. The winds howled and whipped snow into their faces, making it impossible to see further than a few feet in front of them. They were forced to take shelter under a fallen tree that leaned against an outcropping of rocks. Marcus used his fire breath Shout to heat the stones to keep them warm.

"Well, there's one advantage to this storm," Serana commented, crowding closer to the warmth of the stone behind them, despite her insistence that the cold didn't bother her.

"What's that?" Marcus asked.

"If it's holding us up, it will likely prevent my father's people from finding this place, too."

"You're assuming we're ahead of them," Marcus said wryly. Serana's face fell.

"That's true," she admitted. "I didn't think of that."

Marcus smiled. "Don't worry," he said, more cheerfully than he felt. "I'm sure we're still ahead of him. We snatched a Moth Priest right out from under his toadies, after all."

"Only barely," Serana pointed out. "Let's not underestimate my father. He had both Elder Scrolls – briefly, mind you, but he had them. Unlike Mother, he never made a study of them, but he knew enough about them to prepare for what he couldn't do. He would have known he couldn't read them himself. It's why he sent out that call for a Moth Priest. If we kept him from getting to one, he'll try an alternate solution, and that would mean sending someone to a place like this Ancestor Glade to lie in wait for us. He'll have figured out that we'll need more answers than a Moth Priest will be able to give us."

Marcus thought about that for a long while. It made a lot of sense, and he vowed to be extra vigilant while they were in the Glade.

The storm lasted through the night, finally blowing itself out about mid-morning. Marcus chafed at the delay, but knew that attempting to wade through deep, drifted snow risked the potential to walk off the side of a cliff if they couldn't see clearly. An overhang of projecting snow could look like solid ground until one stepped on it; and it was a long way down. He shuddered.

When they were finally underway once more, the sun was glaring overhead. The snow had that icy sheen it only gets when it has partially thawed, then frozen again. Serana winced, putting up her hood.

"It's so bright out here," she complained. "I don't know how you stand it."

"You weren't always a vampire," Marcus commented. "Don't you remember a time when you played in the sun?"

"No," the girl said sullenly. "That was a long time ago." Marcus wisely let the subject drop.

He forged ahead, breaking a path for the two of them through the crusted snow. It was hard work, and his breath clouded around his dragon plate helmet. He glanced back once, to make sure Serana was able to get through. She didn't even look winded.

"You aren't even breathing hard," he complained good-naturedly.

"I'm not even breathing, Marcus," she reminded him. "I'm technically not alive, so I don't need to breathe."

There was nothing he could say to that, though he did wonder how she – or any vampire – could speak at all if there was no breath to force past vocal chords. It reminded him once more that his traveling companion was, in fact, a creature most people would shun as a monster. He turned back to the path ahead of him. In frustration, he Shouted at it.

" _YOL TOOR SHUL!"_

A column of fire erupted from him, as if he were Odahviing himself. Half of the snow on the path vaporized into steam instantly. The rest of it became slush that reached only to their knees instead of their waists.

"That was effective!" Serana giggled. "You should have done that hours ago!"

"Yeah, but I can't keep doing that every hundred feet or so," Marcus gasped. "It takes a bit out of me when I do it."

They continued making their way up the mountain, with Marcus using his Shout on the deepest parts of the snowbanks, and eventually found themselves outside a narrow opening in the cliff face that Marcus had spotted from Odahviing's back.

"Is this it?" Serana asked, peering into the gloom inside.

"If it isn't, we've come all this way for nothing," Marcus said drily. "I'll go first. Stay behind me."

He squeezed through the narrow opening, more suited to a priest in robes than a warrior clad in armor, and the two soon found themselves in a narrow chasm with a path that led through ancient trees that had taken root here centuries ago. Marcus noticed immediately that it was warmer in here, as well – much warmer, in fact – as evidenced by the mist hanging in the air and the flora and mycota growing along the path. The scent of rotted vegetation drifted up from under their feet, but it was not an unpleasant smell.

"This is the Ancestor Grove?" Serana queried, dubious. "This had better be worth the trip, or Dexion and I are going to have words when we get back."

Marcus was thinking along the same lines, but said nothing. They had arrived at a deeper chasm that cut across the path. The only way to get to the other side was traversing a downed trunk that seemed as decrepit as the tree stump from which it had fallen.

"I'll go first," Marcus told her. "If it holds my weight, it should hold yours."

The tree trunk creaked and groaned alarmingly, but he made it across, and Serana quickly followed. Ahead, they could see light from an unknown source, and the air seemed a bit fresher, though with the unmistakable tang of sulfur in it. They emerged at the top of a ridge overlooking a large hot springs filled with pink-budded trees similar to the Gildergreen yet different. Here and there Marcus could see dragon's tongue and mountain flowers in hues of red, blue, purple and astonishingly in yellow. He'd never seen yellow ones before.

 _Tamsyn will kill me if I don't bring her back here,_ he thought fondly.

Hot springs burbled quietly, fed by underground activity, and by a stream that splashed down a bluff across the Glade from them. The warmth of the ground here contributed to melting the snow outside, and it had found a way in.

"Wow," Serana murmured. "We must be the first humans to set foot in this place in centuries! How come it's not drifted with snow, like outside?" she wondered.

"The opening up there isn't big enough to let a lot of snow in," Marcus replied, pointing up to the roof of the cavern. "And the hot springs in here keep the ground warm enough so it doesn't stick around."

"Where's the light coming from, then?" Serana asked.

"It seems to be coming from those pink-flowered trees," Marcus said. "That's…really unusual."

"Well, let's hurry and find this draw knife you're supposed to use," Serana said, moving quickly down the path to the floor of the cavern.

As they neared the bottom, Marcus saw several collective groups of butterflies fluttering near the pink trees.

"Ancestor Moths," he pointed out. "That has to be them."

"What did Dexion say about them?" Serana asked, frowning to remember.

"That they'd be attracted by the scent of the canticle tree," Marcus replied. "I'm guessing that's these day-glow pink trees. And look over there." He pointed to a large, stone sculpture in the center of the Glade. It was a ring set within a half-ring, and floating impossibly within the center was the two-handled draw knife. It looked like any other draw knife Marcus had ever worked with, and he plucked it from the sculpture.

He stepped around it to the closest canticle tree. "Here goes," he said, and scraped the knife down the trunk of the tree, removing several inches of bark. It gave off a sweet, perfumed scent, and Serana wrinkled her nose.

"You know, I'm not even breathing, and I can smell that," she commented.

"Be glad you haven't been in some of the barrows I've been in," Marcus grinned as he scraped off another strip of bark. "That should be enough. Now, do I stand here and let the Moths come to me?" he wondered. "Or do I take it to them?"

"I don't think they've noticed yet," Serana said, looking around the Glade. "There're several clusters of them up there," she pointed. "Maybe we'd better chase them down and see what happens."

They spent the next several minutes clambering around the Glade, pursuing Ancestor Moths, with Marcus keeping one eye on the entrance the entire time. So far, nothing had moved in the Glade other than the Moths and them.

"I think that's enough now," Serana piped up. "We must have picked up a half dozen clusters, at least. Hey! Is it me, or are you starting to…glow?"

A sheen like sunlight seemed to be coloring Marcus' vision, and he felt very light-headed. But instinctively he knew it wasn't time yet. "One more swarm," he told her. "That should do it. There's one just up ahead there."

As he approached the Moths, they swooped and dived around him. The glowing around him intensified, making it nearly impossible to see anything beyond the light that suffused him. Whispers which had been very faint not long before were now more pronounced, and Marcus almost felt he could distinguish intelligible words.

A sudden beam of light pierced the Glade, shining down from somewhere above and illuminating the stone sculpture on the cavern floor.

"That's my cue," Marcus said faintly.

"What?" Serana asked, puzzled. She had seen nothing.

Marcus staggered down the path like a drunken man, determined to make it to the beam of light before the dizziness claimed him. The whispering in his ears was a quiet roar, demanding his attention and begging to be understood. He wobbled over to the light and stood, releasing the three Elder Scrolls and pulling them off his back one by one, reading them as he did so.

Unfamiliar characters swam through his vision; schematics and formulae danced through his sight. The whispering was now a loud cacophony of a thousand voices, all telling him what he wanted to know, and yet, though it all, there was the guiding voice of Akatosh himself.

 _Well, Dragonborn, you_ have _gotten yourself into a mess, haven't you?_

He tried to speak and found he couldn't.

The Dragon God of Time chuckled. _Don't speak, then. Think. It will be easier._

 _I've missed you,_ Marcus thought. It wasn't the first thing he had wanted to say to his mentor, but it slipped out.

 _And I have missed you, Dragonborn,_ Akatosh said fondly. Then the presence grew sterner. _What were you thinking, throwing away the chance to rid yourself of Hircine? After all the trouble you went to in finding a cure?_

 _Kodlak thought—_ Marcus began.

Akatosh cut him off. _I know what Kodlak thought,_ he said. _Did it ever occur to you that the Harbinger doesn't know_ everything? _You are the Dragonborn, Marcus. You were chosen by me. You defeated the World-Eater himself. Did you really think you couldn't handle a vampire lord without Hircine's help?_

 _No,_ Marcus thought morosely. _I guess I screwed up, didn't I?_

 _Not irrevocably,_ Akatosh soothed, and Marcus knew he was forgiven – this time. _You still have the witch's head. Seek a cure when you have resolved the crisis with the vampires. For now, you must hurry to Darkfall Cave. It's in the Druadach Mountains, in the far northwestern corner of the Reach, near the border of Haafingar. There is where you will find Auriel's Bow._

Marcus gave a mental start. _That's it?_ he asked. _It's just sitting there in a cave after all this time?_

 _Don't be ridiculous,_ Akatosh snapped. _Of course I wouldn't leave my Bow just lying around in a cave somewhere. It's quite a bit more complicated than that. You'll see when you get there. But you must hurry. Harkon's minions are already here to stop you. You must protect Serana._

With that, the presence of Akatosh faded, and Marcus felt bereft and alone once more. The ache was almost too much to bear, but he had no time to dwell on it. As the glow around him faded and his senses returned to normal, his keen hearing picked up the scuff of leather on stone; he smelled the musty, moldering scent of vampires that weren't Serana filling his nostrils. Worse, he heard the guttural grunt of gargoyles.

"Serana, they're here!" he called to her, and allowed himself to go wolf.

Three vampires and two thralls raced down the path towards them, but the gargoyles leaped ahead of the rest, and Marcus met them head on. Serana hesitated only a moment before shooting off ice spikes with one hand and using the fireball staff in the other. Marcus had to perform feats of acrobatic skill to avoid getting caught in the conflagration himself.

"Hey, careful with that!" he growled.

"Sorry!" she exclaimed, flustered, and put the staff away. The fighting had gotten tightly compressed, as first one gargoyle went down under Marcus' claws, then a Nord thrall who was foolish enough to close with him. Serana opted instead to pinpoint the vampires with lighting and ice, while Marcus simply ripped any of them apart that got too close to him. He could smell the blood of the still-half-alive thralls, and targeted the second one, after devouring the heart of the first.

This one, who had once been a free-thinking Dunmer, chose to keep her distance and snipe at him with a bow. She must have had some powerful arrows, because they hurt like Oblivion. Marcus wanted to go after her, but the second gargoyle got in his way, and he was forced to deal with it.

Serana raised the first thrall who turned on one of the vampires, and kept a steady stream of ice and electricity at the other two vampires, who were attempting to subdue her without killing her.

"Your father will be pleased when we return with his prize," the female, who had been Altmer, leered smugly. She aimed a constant stream of life-draining energy at the vampire girl.

"You're assuming that you're returning," Serana snapped, dodging behind the stone sculpture.

The raised thrall finally killed the third vampire, who was only a fledgling, before disintegrating into dust. Marcus crushed the gargoyle's skull, then went for its throat, and in a moment it crumbled into its component ores. He turned to glare at the Dunmer thrall, who squeaked in surprise and retreated further up the path to the entrance of the Glade.

Letting her go for the moment, Marcus turned back to the other two vampires, whose life-drain was taking its toll on Serana. She was paler than usual, almost pure white, and the orange in her eyes had gone a dull red color. As he watched, she slumped to her knees.

Howling, Marcus launched himself at the closer of the two vampires. The one further away, unnerved by the howl, turned his life-drain on Marcus, who was already tearing into the Altmer vampire.

"They didn't tell us there would be a werewolf here!" the male vampire said. "That just makes this victory all the more sweet!"

A stab of pain shot through Marcus' shoulder as an arrow from behind found its mark. Once more, he howled, but this time it was to summon help. At first he thought it hadn't worked. The two red wolves he usually summoned didn't appear, and Marcus cursed Hircine under his breath.

Desperately he slammed the female vampire into the stone sculpture. It trembled on its pedestal, and she lay there, momentarily stunned while Marcus launched himself at the male. For several minutes he tried closing with the vampire, but his adversary was too smart to allow that to happen. He kept moving, keeping his distance, turning invisible to attempt to get away. The last power really had no significance. Marcus could still hear and smell him, and he could see the slight warping of the air around the man as he attempted to get into a better position to attack.

The arrows that kept hitting him from the path above, however, were becoming more and more of an issue. In addition, the female vampire was beginning to rouse herself, while Serana was still too weak to fight back. He couldn't abandon her to pursue the male.

Suddenly, from above, he heard a wolf howl – no, not just a wolf. A werewolf! He knew that howl! Hope flared as the Dunmer thrall on the path at the top of the Glade suddenly shrieked as she was picked up bodily and flung violently out and across the Glade. She crashed into the bluff of rocks where the stream came down and lay still, the life draining out of her.

A red-furred werewolf leaped down the path, howling her victory song.

"Aela!" he barked. "Am I glad to see you!"

"You called, and I came, Shield-Brother," she growled. "Lucky for you I was hunting in these parts."

"There's another, over there," Marcus said, gesturing to the far side of the Glade where he had gathered the Ancestor Moths, who now flitted about innocently, untouched and unaware of the chaos that was going on in their Glade.

"I can smell him, but I can't see him," Aela said. "What about these two?"

"Just the Altmer," Marcus said firmly. "Don't hurt Serana, the dark-haired one. She's my friend."

"As you wish, Harbinger," Aela said, and leaped on the vampire elf.

Marcus sniffed the air and concentrated on ignoring the smell of sulfur, mountain flowers and canticle bark. He strained his ears past the sounds of water bubbling and gurgling until he found what he'd been searching for.

Up and to his left, the male vampire, a Nord, was waiting, recovering. Marcus deliberately bounded past the path and began climbing the bluff to reach the ledge, intending to sneak up on the vampire from his left side. It would have worked beautifully, except that the Nord heard him and sent a wave of ice his way, chilling him to the bone.

Marcus felt his muscles seize up and he toppled over the ledge, landing hard on the stream bed below. Stunned, he saw Aela, who had by this time killed the Altmer vampire, bound up the path, dodging another wave of ice and launching herself on the vampire to tear him to pieces. His screams were short-lived.

Slowly, painfully, Marcus got to his feet, feeling more than a little foolish.

"Thanks, Aela," he said as she came down to join Serana and him. The vampire girl was recovering, now that she wasn't under a steady assault. "I owe you for this one."

Aela shrugged. "I always feel the direct approach is the best approach," she sniffed, tongue lolling out.

"That's what I get for overthinking things," Marcus admitted ruefully, reverting back to human form. He fired off a healing spell and rummaged in his pack for a stamina potion to take the chill off.

"Serana, did you need anything?"

"No, thanks, Marcus," she demurred. "I'm a vampire; any healing spells or potions you have would only hurt me."

"Oh, right. Sorry," he said abashed. "I wasn't thinking."

"So what brings you down here to the ass-end of Falkreath?" Aela asked as they made their way back outside.

"It's a long story," Marcus said, "and unfortunately I don't have time to tell it." At Aela's crest-fallen look, he relented. "But you'd better have a supply of mead laid in to Jorrvaskr when I get back," he grinned. "It's going to take a lot of it to get through this tale."

"I look forward to it," Aela said, her tail wagging unconsciously in anticipation. "Where are you headed now?"

"Yes," Serana added. "I'd like to know that, too. Where _are_ we headed?"

"A place called Darkfall Cave," Marcus said. "It's in the Reach. I've got a general idea—"

"I know exactly where it is," Serana said. "It's just a small hollow in the hillside that feral vampires sometimes use to avoid the sun. Auriel's Bow is there?"

"Auriel's Bow?" Aela asked, her ears twitching. "What is that? I've never heard of it before."

"It's something we need to fight the vampire threat," Marcus said. "It's part of that story I've promised you."

"Then I won't keep you, Harbinger," the red-furred wolf said. "I look forward to your victorious return to Jorrvaskr soon!" She flicked her tail at them and bounded down the path, disappearing into the trees.

" _You see, Dragonborn?"_ Hircine purred in his mind. _"You can summon aid not just from the Wild Hunt, but from any werewolves who happen to be nearby. Think of how useful that can be."_

" _First they would have to be nearby,"_ Marcus countered mentally. _"That seems a bit of a draw-back, don't you think?"_

" _There are other perks, as you will discover,"_ the Lord of the Hunt gloated. _"Do not think I will let you go so easily. You wear my Ring, and I do not believe you are adverse to using it when it suits you."_

The presence faded, and Marcus simmered. He _had_ gotten rather used to being able to change easily back and forth when he needed to. Still, the few brief moments when he had read the Elder Scrolls and heard Akatosh's voice in his mind again made him all the more determined to rid himself of the Daedric Prince just as soon as he could.

"Darkfall Cave is a long way from here," Serana said. "Are you going to call Odahviing to take us there?"

"Probably," Marcus said. "But I think I need to stop in and see Zaria at Grave Concoctions in Falkreath first. I noticed I'm low on potions. Valga at the Dead Man's Rest will likely have some food as well."

"Lovely names for businesses," Serana smirked. "I sense a theme."

Marcus gave a wry smile. "They don't shy away from the fact they've got the largest cemetery in Skyrim," he admitted.

Two hours later found them at the foot of the mountain, and another hour after that they were walking through the gates of Falkreath.

"Hey!" said one of the guards. "Did you see a dog out there?"

"What?" Serana asked.

"Oh, not this again," Marcus muttered. "Yes, I saw a dog," he told the woman. "And trust me, he's more trouble than he's worth."

"Oh," she replied. "You'd better talk to Lod the Smith, then," she added. "He'll want to know. He's got his heart set on having that dog."

"I didn't see any dogs," Serana mused as they made their way to Grave Concoctions.

"It was on my first trip through here," Marcus explained. "Honestly, I forgot all about it."

"So, are you going to tell me about it?" she pressed.

Sighing, Marcus quickly related Barbas' pathetic story to the vampire girl.

"And you just let him go on without you?" Serana asked when he finished. "He's probably sitting there now, at Haemar's Shame, waiting for you."

"Well, if that's the case, he's got a long wait," Marcus said firmly. "We've got other things to do, like finding Auriel's Bow."

"But that can wait, can't it?" Serana frowned. "I mean, we killed the people my father sent to the Ancestor Glade. It's going to be a while before he figures out they're not coming back. We can afford to take a day to help out a Daedric dog, can't we?"

"Why is this so important to you?" he asked, pausing in the middle of the street to look at her.

Serana met his gaze calmly. "I've got a thing for keeping promises, okay? Maybe it's because…others haven't kept their promises to me…" Her voice trailed off unhappily. She looked away.

"Have I let you down, Serana?" Marcus queried kindly, lifting her chin.

"You, Marcus?" she asked. "No, never. It was…other people. I don't want to talk about it right now. But this means a lot to me."

He sighed. "Alright," he agreed. "Let me pick up some supplies. We'll talk to Lod so I can let him know about Barbas, and then we'll go see about reuniting the mutt with his master."

Lod the Smith was a hard-working man who spent hours each day at his forge, hammering out iron and steel. He greeted the two cordially as they approached.

"Did you see a dog on the road?" he asked them. "A fine, strong animal it was. I'm too busy to go after him myself, but I could sure use a companion like that around here."

"Yeah, about that," Marcus said. "Did you know he's a Daedric dog?"

"What?" Lod blinked. "Are you sure? He looked like any other dog to me."

"He talked to me," Marcus replied. "Said his name was Barbas, and he was the companion of Clavicus Vile."

Lod made the sign of Arkay across his chest. "Shor's blood!" he breathed. "I think you're serious."

"I wouldn't joke about something like that," Marcus assured him. "I just wanted to let you know you've set your sights a bit high. I don't think you're going to be able to entice him to stay here with you."

"Damn shame, then," Lod murmured, his face clouded with disappointment. "He sure was a fine-looking animal. I'm much obliged to you then for letting me know."

"I feel so sorry for him," Serana said, looking back over her shoulder as they walked away. Lod had gone back to pounding steel, but a forlorn expression was on his face now. "There must be something we can do."

"At the moment, no, there isn't," Marcus said. "But if it makes you feel any better, I can send him a puppy."

Serana giggled. "And where would you get a puppy to send him?" she asked.

"I know a guy in Markarth that raises war dogs," Marcus shrugged. "I'm sure Banning would be willing to part with one."

He quickly conducted the rest of his business, and since it was still early in the day, they left, taking the road east to Haemar's Shame. As they passed Helgen, Marcus was again haunted by the events that had taken place there, nearly three years before. It annoyed him that the Jarl of Falkreath, Siddgeir, had seen no reason to invest any time or money into rebuilding the town. At this point, Marcus felt sure that most of its former residents – those who might have survived Alduin's attack – had by now taken up new lives in other parts of Skyrim or Tamriel.

As they wended their way through the twisting road that threaded the pass, they met a band of traveling drunkards, singing at the tops of their voices and praising Honningbrew Mead to anyone who would listen. Marcus had had Honningbrew, and had to admit he preferred it to the swill with which Maven Black-briar had attempted to corner the market. He even had a bottle or two in his backpack.

"Come and join us!" one of the revelers called. "Nothing like a few spirits to…well, to lift your spirits! Ha ha ha!" His full, brown beard reached to his chest and quivered as he laughed.

Marcus grinned. There were far too few people like this in Skyrim. Things _had_ been too serious lately.

"You seem to be enjoying yourselves," he commented.

"And why not?" the tipsy man replied. "It's a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and I've got a bottle to share with you, if you'd like."

Marcus smirked and unslung the pack from his back. He pulled out the bottle of Honningbrew from a side pocket.

"Why have one bottle when you can have two?" he asked, with a twinkle in his eye, as he held the bottle out to the man.

"By Shor!" the man guffawed. "It's right you are! Here's to you, then, stranger!" He tapped his bottle to Marcus' and downed it in one long gulp.

"That hits the spot, it does!" he sighed, wiping his mouth. "But here, you haven't had yours yet! Where are my manners?"

"That's alright, my friend," Marcus demurred. "I have a long road ahead of me, and I need to keep a clear head. You take it."

"Such generosity is unheard of in these troubled times," the reveler said reverently. "And it deserves to be rewarded. Here," he added, pulling an amulet off his neck. "I want you to have this. No, no," he waved Marcus off as the Dragonborn tried to refuse. "I insist. A little gift from me to you." He leaned in close, and Marcus managed to keep the smile on his face though the man's particular body-odor already assaulted his wolf senses. How he kept his eyes from watering, he didn't even want to think about.

"I'll let you in on a little secret," the happy man confided, whispering. "It lets you _breathe_ underwater!"

 _I'll be thankful if it lets me breathe now,_ Marcus thought, suppressing a cough.

"Thank you, friend," he said to the reveler now. "I'm afraid I must go. Perhaps we'll meet again someday and I can join you in that drink."

"I look forward to it, my good man!" the hairy drunkard waved, as he and his companions continued on down the road towards Riverwood.

"Delightful bunch," Serana remarked, her mouth quirked in a lopsided smile.

"I didn't see you helping me out here," Marcus snorted.

"I don't drink mead," Serana pointed out. "And you looked like you were handling things, though I thought for a moment you were going to throw up. Problem?"

"He was…pungent," Marcus explained. _"Very_ pungent."

"It's times like these that make me glad I don't breathe," Serana grinned wickedly.

"Believe me," Marcus drawled. "For a moment I envied you."

* * *

An hour later they approached the bend of the road on the eastern slope of the pass where Haemar's Shame was located. Marcus remembered Lydia telling him about the place on his first time through here, on the way up to High Hrothgar. It had apparently been the last bastion of a famous war general who had been turned into a vampire but then had been killed by an angry mob. He wondered if they would encounter any of the undead here now.

Barbas was waiting for them outside the cavern.

" _Sheesh! There you are,"_ he whined. _"I t'awt you'd changed your mind. What happened? Didja get tied up in traffic or sumpt'ing?"_

"Sorry, Barbas," Marcus apologized. "Those other things I had to do kept me busy for a bit. And how would you know anything about traffic jams, by the way?"

" _I'm a Daedric dog, remembah?"_ said Daedric dog snorted. _"The other realms might be closed to us, but we can still peek t'rough da window."_

"Wait a minute," Serana interrupted. "Other realms? What other realms?"

" _Ha!"_ Barbas barked in amusement. _"She's a Daughter of Coldharbour and she's in the presence of a daedra, and she doesn't know about other realms?"_

"Don't be ridiculous," Serana said defensively. "I know about other realms, I just didn't think Marcus did."

"Uh, guys," Marcus began, "can we not have this conversation?"

" _Oh, are you in for a treat, then,"_ Barbas chuckled. _"He hasn't told you where he comes from?"_

"Barbas!" Marcus said sharply. "That's enough!"

" _What?"_ the dog whined again. _"What did I say?"_

"He's already said that much, Marcus," Serana pointed out. "You might as well tell me as not."

Marcus heaved a sigh and threw a glare at Barbas, who merely wagged his tail and lolled his tongue out.

"Thanks a lot, Brutus," he muttered. To Serana he simply said, "Look, it's a secret – though apparently not to the Daedra – and I don't want this to get around." He briefly informed her of how he had come to Skyrim.

Serana was silent for several moments. "This…explains quite a lot, actually," she said, and a smile bloomed on her face. "I can see now why you do and say some of the things you do. We've met a lot of people since I woke up, and in my experience none of them have been as compassionate and understanding as you've been."

"I'm just trying to do the right thing," Marcus said. "And if that means helping a lost little puppy get back to his master," here he threw a smug grin at Barbas, "then I'm glad to do whatever I can to help."

" _A'right, a'right,"_ Barbas growled softly. _"Maybe I overstepped my bounds a bit. I'm sorry, okay? Are ya still willing to help me?"_

"Lead on," Marcus said.

" _T'ank you!"_ Barbas said happily, wagging his tail once more. _"Now, since he banished me, Vile's been rather weak. He can't manifest very far from one of his shrines. I know there's a cult that worships him here in Haemar's Shame. We should be able to talk to him there. If this works out, I'll make sure you're rewarded. Eh…just don't trust any offer he makes…okay?"_

"Um, okay," Marcus said, dubiously. What sort of offer would a Daedric Prince of Wishes make anyway? All he wanted to do was get the two back together. It's not like he wanted anything more to do with the Daedra than was strictly necessary.

Barbas trotted into the cave and disappeared into the gloom.

"What kind of worshippers does the Prince of Wishes have?" Marcus asked Serana.

"I have no idea," she replied. "My experience with the Daedra has been…not the best example to judge by."

"Changing the subject now," Marcus soothed. "Let's go reunite those two crazy kids, okay?"

"You are a strange man, Marcus Dragonborn," Serana said shaking her head.

"That's what keeps my enemies off balance," he quipped, leading the way into the cave.

Inside they found the cultists happened to be vampires and thralls. Thank goodness there were no death hounds here. Marcus didn't feel the need to change to werewolf form. He tried to reason with some of them, tried to explain that all they wanted to do was speak to Clavicus Vile, but the vampires weren't exactly willing to sit down to a cup of tea – or blood – and have a nice chat, and Marcus and Serana found they were forced to fight their way through the complex of caverns. When they found the remains of the victims, Marcus was even less inclined to be understanding about it.

Eventually, they reached the innermost cavern where a large stone statue to Clavicus Vile had been erected. Barbas was already fighting the remaining vampires, and Marcus and Serana joined in. Very soon, all was silent once more in the chamber.

"It looks like one of them caught you," Serana pointed out, and Marcus looked down to see blood flowing from a nasty gash on his arm.

"I'm a werewolf," he pointed out. "I can't be turned into a vampire by the likes of them." Still, it stung, and he found a minor potion in his pack to help hurry the healing process.

"So now what?" he asked Barbas. "How do we contact Clavicus Vile?"

" _Just go up to the statue and talk to him,"_ the dog said. _"I'm sure he's been watching this whole time."_

"Great," Marcus muttered. "I just killed off all his worshippers, and now I've got to negotiate a peace treaty between the two of you. This can't end well."

" _Don't be too sure of that,"_ Barbas said. _"Vile's got a weird sense of humor."_

Marcus looked over to Serana, who was sitting on the steps leading down to the shrine. She gestured for him to 'go ahead', and he approached the large, towering stone statue. It was made of white polished marble, worn and crumbled a bit from the ravages of time, depicting a handsome, horned man draped in flowing robes, holding out a horned mask in his left hand. His right hand was extended down at his side, and appeared to be in the act of holding, caressing or petting something that wasn't there. Marcus wondered if part of the sculpture was missing.

He cleared his throat. "Er..um…Lord Vile?" he began. "Um…sorry about your worshippers here, I really had no choice. But…" he paused and looked back to Barbas, who merely laid down on the floor, tail wagging. "I have a request of you."

" _By all mean, let's hear it,"_ the Daedric Prince of Wishes said. His voice echoed all around the chamber, but seemed to originate from the statue itself. _"It's the least I can do since you already helped me grant one final wish for my worshippers. They were suffering so from vampirism and begged me for a cure."_ Vile chuckled. _"Then you came along and ended their misery! I couldn't have planned it better meself!"_

"What?" Marcus gaped. "They only wanted a _cure?"_ Anger surged through him. He had the distinct feeling he just been used again, and it infuriated him. "Then why didn't you just give them the cure?" he demanded.

" _It doesn't work that way,"_ Clavicus Vile sniffed. _"I'm the Daedric Prince of Wishes, not healing."_

"You could have brought a priest here to them," Marcus insisted, "or sent them to that guy in Morthal…Falion. I heard he knows how to cure vampirism."

From the tail of his eye, Marcus saw Serana sit up straighter, but he couldn't spare a moment for that now.

"You're supposed to be the Prince of Wishes," Marcus said scathingly. "That doesn't mean figuring out ways to weasel out of your responsibilities."

" _You'd better mind your words, Dragonborn,"_ Clavicus Vile warned. _"Yes, I know who you are. Don't think you can tell me how to do my job. I'm the one who gets to decide which wishes I'll grant and how I'll grant them."_

"Oh, really?" Marcus snorted. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks to me like all you want to do is welch on the deals you make."

 _He's always been like that,_ Hircine drawled in Marcus' mind. _He's weak. Without the dog, he's nothing._

" _You keep out of this, Hircine!"_ Vile cried desperately. _"This has nothing to do with you!"_

The Lord of the Hunt gave an evil chuckle in Marcus' mind and withdrew, but his comment had certainly given Marcus some food for thought.

"Alright," Marcus said now. "Let's table that discussion for later. Right now, it seems that you owe me a favor."

" _Yes, yes, of course!"_ Vile readily agreed. _"I'm more than willing to let bygones be bygones and come to an agreement. So, what's your heart's desire? What kind of deal can we strike?"_

"What are you offering?" Marcus asked, curious.

" _Well,"_ Vile mused, _"I_ could _offer you an end to the Civil War in Skyrim."_

Marcus perked up. He thought he was doing a pretty good job on that account with his current course of action, but he was curious to see what the Prince of Wishes had in mind.

"How would you do that?" he asked. "I mean, that's a pretty big deal."

" _No, not really," Clavicus said smugly. "If I had my full power, granting that would be trivial. I'd simply snap my fingers, and everyone in Skyrim would die. War resolved."_

Marcus shuddered inwardly. No doubt about it, he was dealing with someone who was purely amoral. Clavicus Vile had no intentions of honoring any kind of deal Marcus might make with him. It was certainly a good thing that he _wasn't_ at full strength. Perhaps reuniting him with Barbas wasn't such a good idea. He looked back at the dog, who still lay there, gazing up at him hopefully, wagging his tail.

"I think I'll pass on that offer," Marcus said carefully now to Vile. "What else have you got?"

" _Well, most people want power, in my experience,"_ the Daedric Prince admitted, _"but you're the gods-cursed Dragonborn. You've already got more power than most people who aren't immense fire-breathing monsters."_ He snorted in self-derision. _"As much as I hate to admit it, you're almost as powerful as I am right now. But that's just because half of my power resides in that mutt, Barbas. But that puts something in my mind. You might call it a win-win situation for both of us."_

"I'm listening," Marcus said. He knew there would be a catch here somewhere, and could only remain diligent against it.

" _If you became my Champion," Vile said, "I could chase Nature Boy out of your mind, and you'd be free of him."_

Not for one minute did Marcus believe Clavicus Vile. Hircine had already as much as said that Vile was weakened without Barbas. The Daedric dog had warned him as well, not to trust any deal his master might offer. Marcus was still fuming over being used to "cure" the worshippers of their vampirism, so he could clearly see what Barbas meant. And he had no intention of trading one evil Prince for another.

"No," he finally said. "It's a generous offer, I'm sure, but really, I only came here to reunite you with Barbas. I'm sure that whatever spat you two had, you can patch up again."

" _Ugh!"_ Vile spat. _"That insufferable pup? Forget it! Request denied. No deal! I'm glad to be rid of him!"_

At this Barbas hunkered lower on the floor and gave a low whine. His tail stilled.

The Dragonborn felt pity for the Daedric dog. In point of fact, he felt Barbas would be much happier without Clavicus Vile, but it seemed to mean a lot to the dog to have his master take him back.

"Are you sure about this Barbas?" he asked.

" _I'm nothin' wit'out him,"_ Barbas moaned.

"And what about you, Lord Vile?" Marcus inquired, turning back to the Prince's statue. "It seems rather harsh to cast Barbas out like this. Where is he going to go?"

" _To Oblivion, for all I care,"_ Vile said heartlessly. _"If he can get there without my help, that is. I never want to see him again. Even if it_ does _mean I'm stuck in this…pitiful shrine, in…in the back end of…n-nowhere."_

The Prince didn't sound very sure of himself, and Marcus thought there might yet be some hope of reuniting the two.

" _Well…"_ Vile continued. _"Perhaps there_ is _a way he could earn his place back at my side. Maybe. But no promises."_

"Let's hear it," Marcus prompted. "If it will get the two of you back together, I'm willing to do what I can to help Barbas."

" _There's…an Axe,"_ Vile said smugly. _"An incredibly powerful Axe. An Axe powerful enough for me to have…quite a bit of fun, actually. If you bring it to me, I'll grant you my boon. No strings attached, no messy surprises. At least, not for you,"_ he added, almost under his breath. _"As I recall, it's resting in Rimerock Burrow. Barbas can lead you right to it. The little mutt might even earn his place back at my side."_

Vile's presence faded, and Marcus knew the Prince assumed he would accept the terms.

Barbas stood up and came over to him, nuzzling his hand.

"You okay?" Marcus asked kindly, absently patting the dog's head.

" _I t'ink you're the foist one who's evah asked me dat,"_ Barbas blinked, and the tail wagged a bit. _"Yeah, I t'ink I'll be a'right. Vile gets like dis every few centuries or so. I'm not da foist dog whose mastah's been mean to him."_

"I never treated any dog I ever owned like that," Marcus assured him. "If you were my dog, you'd be a member of my family."

" _Yeah?"_ Barbas marveled. _"Huh. I wondah what dat'd be like, bein' da Dragonborn's mutt."_

"It might be better than being unappreciated by the Daedric Prince of Wishes," Serana said, coming up to them.

"It's not a bad life if you don't mind traveling around Skyrim fighting dragons and figuring out how to squash the Thalmor once and for all," Marcus grinned. "So, what's the deal with this Axe?"

" _Oh, da Rueful Axe?"_ Barbas clarified. _"One of Vile's little jests,"_ the Daedric dog said unhappily. _"A wizard named Sebastian Lort had a daughter who worshipped Hircine. When the daughter became a werewolf it drove Sebastian over the edge. He couldn't stand to see his little girl take on such a bestial form. The wizard wished for the ability to end his daughter's curse. Clavicus gave him an Axe."_

Serana gasped, appalled. Marcus grimaced. It was just the sort of thing he expected from Clavicus Vile.

"And this 'boon' he mentioned?" Marcus inquired.

" _It's that Mask he's holding,"_ Barbas said, pointing his nose at it. _"Give him the Axe, once you've got it, and da Mask is yours. It's supposed to make people like you better."_

"How is that possible?" Serana asked. "It's hideous! Maybe they like you more when you leave."

Marcus remained silent, keeping his thoughts to himself. Aloud, all he said was, "Where's Rimerock Burrow?"

"I know where it is," Serana said, pulling out the well-worn map. "It's here, just south of Northwatch Keep, but it's up on the bluff behind the fortress. There's a path that leads off the road up there. I've been in it a few times, but that was long before the wizard took up residence there."

"Is there room for Odahviing to land?" Marcus asked.

"Near the road, yes," Serana said, "but will Odahviing be able to carry Barbas? I mean," she added, turning to the dog, "can you even climb on a dragon's back?"

" _I could meet you there,"_ Barbas offered. _"I can take a short-cut t'rough Oblivion."_

"I thought you can't get to Oblivion without Vile's help?" Marcus asked.

" _I can't get home without his help,"_ Barbas admitted, _"but I can still take the backroads."_

"Okay," Marcus said. "Speaking of 'home', I think I'd like to head there first. Tamsyn may have returned, and I'd like to check in on the kids. I also need to drop off a few things and check in with my Housecarl. We'll head to Whiterun first and then up to Rimerock Burrow."

"Sounds good to me," Serana said. "How about we give Odahviing a break, since we're not too far from Whiterun; half a day, maybe. We can ride Arvak instead."

"I'm sure Barbas can keep up with a horse better than with a dragon," Marcus agreed.

Arvak was summoned, and Serana and Marcus climbed on.

" _Sheesh!"_ Barbas exclaimed. _"Ya didn't tell me he was an undead horse!"_

"And you're a Daedric dog," Marcus grinned. "It's not like either of you are going to get tired."

" _Dat's not da point!"_ Barbas barked sourly. But he didn't object further, and there was no doubt he was able to keep pace with Arvak. They ate up the miles, with the horse phasing through obstacles as Serana rode him cross-country, rather than follow the road.

"I think you take entirely too much glee in that!" Marcus complained loudly as he ducked another tree branch that passed through them – or they passed through it, he wasn't sure which.

"I said it before," Serana grinned, showing her fangs. "I love this horse!"

A few hours later, as the sun lowered in the sky, they rode up to the stables of Whiterun, with Barbas close behind them. Jervar met them, blanching and making the sign of Kynareth on his chest when he saw the nightmarish horse stopping in front of him. Marcus got off first and helped Serana down, and Arvak evaporated.

"Ysmir's beard!" Jervar exclaimed. "What sort of horse was _that?"_

 _A proper horse for a vampire,_ Marcus thought, but aloud he only said, "It was a special Conjuration spell, Jervar. Nothing to be alarmed about."

"Thank the gods for that, Dragonborn," the stable-hand replied. "I don't think the other horses would want something like that around them!"

The three odd companions made their way up to the gates and entered the city, and Marcus smiled at Blaise, who was just getting off work.

"Dad!" he exclaimed happily, giving his father a hug. "Uh..hi, Serana," he said awkwardly, his face flushing with embarrassment. "Dad, did you get a dog?"

"Uh…not exactly," Marcus demurred. "He's…special." _Please don't talk, yet, Barbas,_ he pleaded silently, though he had no idea if the dog could hear him, or would obey.

"Yeah?" the boy asked. "What's special about him?"

"Let's head inside first," Marcus said, looking around to see who might be listening.

Once they were inside Breezehome, Marcus was swamped by his children, welcoming him home with enthusiasm. All of them greeted Serana cheerfully, but when they saw Barbas they burst out in joy.

"You got a dog, Dad?" Alesan asked, wide-eyed. "That's great!"

"A puppy!" Lucia exclaimed delightedly. "Oh, Papa! Can we keep him?"

"He's a beautiful dog, Papa!" Sofie cried, hugging Barbas around the neck. "I've always wanted a dog!"

" _Whoa, whoa, whoa!"_ Barbas exclaimed. _"Easy on the moichandise, kids! I'm not made of cloth, y'know."_

"He talks?" Blaise blinked. A grin split his face. "That's amazing, Dad! Leave it to you to find a talking dog for us!"

"Now, hold on, kids," Marcus began.

"A talking dog?" Lydia burst out, coming up to them from the kitchen. "Forgive me, Thane, but _are you out of your mind?"_

"Now, Lydia, it's not like that—"

"I've been reasonable up until now, Thane," Lydia stormed. "I swore to protect you and all you own, with my life if necessary, and I feel I've done that…"

"Lydia," Marcus insisted, "just give me a minute to explain—"

"I said nothing when you brought the children home because I knew in my heart it was the right thing for you to do. I've put up with building and expansion and shifting things around. I've looked after your children when you and your wife couldn't be here. I don't even mind that you've brought a vampire girl here because she's been very nice, but this is the limit!"

"Lydia!" Marcus bellowed, and the rafters shook. There was silence as the Housecarl suddenly recalled her place and stood meekly in front of her Thane.

"Barbas doesn't belong to me," Marcus told all of them firmly. "He belongs to himself. He's Clavicus Vile's companion, and I'm helping him out. But _if_ —" he stressed, _"if_ Barbas was my dog, I would make sure there would be a place for him here. He would be a member of this family, is that understood?"

"Yes, my Thane," Lydia agreed, subdued, but she looked far from happy.

"Kids, do you understand?" their father demanded.

"Yes, Papa. Yes, Dad," they all chorused quietly.

"But he can stay tonight, can't he, Papa?" Lucia asked timidly.

"We have to leave for Rimerock Burrow in the morning, _chica,"_ he told her, "but yes, he'll be staying tonight."

"Can he sleep in my room?" Lucia asked.

Marcus smiled. "That will be up to Barbas. You can all spend some time getting to know him this evening, and then ask him where he'd like to sleep."

" _Sure, no pressure on da mutt or anyt'ing,"_ Barbas drawled.

In spite of Lydia's misgivings, Barbas behaved himself like a perfect gentledog. He didn't eat, insisting he didn't need mortal food. He kept them entertained with stories of his encounters with mortals, but kept his associations with Clavicus Vile quiet. Marcus had the feeling Barbas wasn't too happy with Vile's practice of dodging his responsibilities, nor of his callous disregard for Barbas' importance in their lives. He hung back when Marcus insisted the children get to bed. By now it was well past midnight.

"Barbas?" Lucia asked, hesitantly as she climbed the stairs. She had stuck close to him the whole night, with Sofie on his other side, both of them hugging and petting him. The look on the Daedric dog's face was just short of bliss.

" _I'll be right up, kid,"_ Barbas promised. _"I just wanna talk to your old man for a minute."_

"I wish you wouldn't call me that in front of them," Marcus complained good-naturedly. "I'm not that old."

" _Older than you let on,"_ Barbas said cryptically. He wagged his tail at Lucia, and she skipped up the stairs to settle down.

"I'll be up in a minute to tuck you in, sweetie," Marcus promised. "So, what's on your mind, Barbas?" he asked the dog.

" _I just wanted to t'ank you for taking me into your home tonight,"_ Barbas said sincerely. _"I mean, I know I'm a Daedra and all, and ya coulda told me to go on to Rimerock by myself and you'd meet me dere. Ya didn't hafta make all nice like this. We Daedra don't usually get treated dis way, ya know."_

"There's usually a reason for that," Lydia interrupted stiffly. "But I'll admit, I was wrong. You aren't the threat I thought you'd be."

" _I'm more of a t'reat than you could imagine, if you got on my bad side,"_ the dog said truthfully, _"and if I was at full strengt'. But I like you. All of you. The Dragonborn here has been fun to travel with. He's got a unique outlook on life dat few people here in Skyrim have. And you, my good woman, are definitely the right sort of person to look after the t'ings he values most. Not many people have the intestinal fortitude to stand up to a Daedra. But you and your T'ane here are both cut from the same cloth."_

"Thank you…I think," Lydia said, somewhat mollified.

" _And dose kids of yours, Dragonborn,"_ Barbas continued. _"Dey didn't even bat an eye when I spoke da foist time. Every other kid I've talked to in the last year since I been exiled has run screaming in panic."_

Serana chuckled. "Marcus is the Dragonborn, after all," she commented. "By now his children are used to seeing some pretty strange things. A talking dog is almost expected."

Barbas lolled out his tongue and wagged his tail.

" _Well, anyway, I just wanted to say t'anks,"_ he said. _"I supposed I oughta go up and see the little one gets settled down. Cute kid."_ He turned and trotted up the stairs.

"Lydia," Marcus said quietly. "Thanks for understanding."

"You're my Thane," she said with a sad smile. "I won't pretend to understand your reasons for doing the things you do. It's not my place. I'm sorry I stepped out of line. I just…" She trailed off, shrugging and shaking her head.

"I know what you thought," Marcus said. "You thought I was being irresponsible." He gave a self-mocking snort. "It wouldn't be the first time, though, would it?"

"No, Thane, it wouldn't," the Nord woman agreed, with a twinkle in her one good eye. "I just couldn't help but wonder what Lady Tamsyn would say to this."

"You're the voice of reason, when she's not here, that's for certain. But if I know her, she'd probably run right out and buy him a collar and dog tags," Marcus smirked. At Lydia's puzzled look, he chuckled. "Never mind. We should all get some sleep. Serana, did you need anything?"

"I'm good, Marcus," she replied. "And thank you for asking. If you still have that copy of 'Rising Threat, Volume Two,' I think I'd like to finish reading it."

"I have all four Volumes," Marcus smiled. "They're over there, in the bookcase," he pointed. "Good-night, Serana."

Marcus found Barbas snuggled under Lucia's arm in her bed. The girl was already asleep. He gently kissed her forehead and gave Barbas a pat on the head.

"Sleep well, mutt," he grinned.

" _You too, dragon,"_ Barbas responded, thumping his tail on the bed. He laid his head back down on his paws, closed his eyes and gave a contented sigh.

* * *

In the morning, Barbas insisted on meeting Marcus and Serana at Rimerock Burrow.

" _Trust me, it'll be faster dis way,"_ he said. _"You call your scaly red friend and come on out. I'll be dere and we can get the Axe back from Sebastian Lort."_

"Wait, you mean he still has the Axe?" Serana asked. "Do you think he'll give it to us if we ask?"

" _Probably not willingly,"_ Barbas admitted. _"But if you want to, you can try."_

Marcus was still thinking about that two hours later as Odahviing landed in a cleared area of the road just south of Rimerock Burrow.

"Wait for us," he told the dragon. "This shouldn't take long."

"I will remain in the area, _Dovahkiin,"_ Odahviing promised, "but I will not remain on the ground." He launched himself into the air, creating a blizzard as the buffets from his wings kicked up the loose, powdery snow on the ground.

When they could see again, Serana led the way along the road, searching for the path she knew of that led to Rimerock Burrow. They found the cave, and saw Barbas sitting outside, waiting for them.

" _What kept you?"_ the dog asked cheekily, lolling out his tongue.

"Is Sebastian Lort in there?" Marcus asked, ignoring the dog's teasing.

" _Yeah, I just checked about an hour ago when I got here,"_ Barbas said. _"He was doin' some kind of enchanting or sumpt'ing, and he's got a flame atronach patrolling the cavern, keeping watch."_

"It won't be easy getting past that," Serana said, dubiously.

"Damned near impossible," Marcus frowned. "Still, I want to try to talk to Lort first, to see if he'll just give us the Axe."

" _You're da boss,"_ Barbas said, tilting his head to one side. _"Lead on."_

Marcus had fought atronachs of all types; the worst ones, he felt, were the storm atronachs. The whirling boulders held together by lightning resembled something out of a nightmare to him. The electricity they threw off was stronger than any spell he'd ever been hit with, with the possible exception of Hevnoraak, in Valthume, a couple of years before. Frost atronachs were huge, lumbering, mobile glaciers, and when they hit you, you knew it. The cold just seeped into your bones, making you sluggish and slow, but at least you could still move. Not so with storm atronachs, whose shock attacks seized up muscles, making them refuse to work. By comparison, Marcus felt, flame atronachs were the weakest. They hit you with fireballs, but adequate preparation in the form of a potion – or in his case, the ring Tamsyn had made for him before going into Labyrinthian – usually took the worst of the damage.

He had the ring with him now. In point of fact, he seldom took it off. Tamsyn had offered to make him a stronger one, but they had both been so busy, setting up training camps of combined Imperial, Stormcloak and Reachfolk troops that she hadn't gotten around to it. It would have to be enough for now. He quickly dug into his pack and found a fire-resistance potion, offering it to Serana.

"Thanks," she said gratefully. "But what about you?"

"I've got my ring," he said. "Let's go talk to Sebastian Lort."

They entered the cave, and Marcus ordered Barbas to hang back a bit first to see if negotiations were possible. It all went out the window, however, when the flame atronach attacked them on sight. Barbas went after it, the fireballs doing no damage whatsoever to the Daedric dog. Serana peppered it with ice spikes, and Marcus headed up a ramp on the left side of the cavern that led to an upper level where the wizard, Sebastian Lort, was working.

"Who dares intrude on my research?" he demanded.

"Hold up a minute, Sebastian," Marcus said, raising his hands. "I just want to talk, but your guardian there threw the first fireball."

"What is the meaning of this?" Lort growled, suspicious. Lightning crackled from both hands as the battle below continued to rage.

"I don't want to hurt you," Marcus insisted. "I just came for the Axe. I need it to…help a friend," he finished lamely. A sinking feeling in his gut told him this wasn't going to end well. Lort scowled.

"A friend," he sneered. "That _'friend'_ wouldn't happen to be Clavicus Vile, would he?" At Marcus' guilty look the wizard's scowl deepened. "Well, he can't have it!" Lort declared. "He gave it to _me,_ to 'end my daughter's lycanthropy', he said. And now he wants it back so he can deceive some other fool desperate enough to believe his lies? I'll die before I let him have the Rueful Axe!"

"It doesn't have to come to that," Marcus reasoned. "Let me have the Axe. I can talk to Hircine; maybe he'll let your daughter go, free her of her lycanthropy." He wasn't actually certain Hircine could do it, or agree to it if he could, but he was willing to make the attempt if Lort would just give up the Axe without a fight.

"Free her?" Sebastian cackled wildly. "She's already free! _I_ freed her! She wanted to follow Hircine in the Wild Hunt, so as the dutiful father I am, I let her go. You can't fight the Daedra, boy. They take what they want with no regard to us poor mortals. But I can keep the Axe from Clavicus Vile by killing you now!"

Lightning launched from the wizard's hands, and Marcus felt the painful, all-too-familiar jolt of paralysis as his muscles seized up. Dimly he was aware of a massive explosion from somewhere down below; he heard Barbas barking and Serana yelling, and he strained to bring his body under control.

Abruptly the paralysis ceased as Lort turned his attention to the new threat facing him. Gasping, Marcus saw the Rueful Axe lying on a bloodied altar nearby. The bones told the grisly tale, and he lost any sympathy he might have felt for the crazed, grieving father. Taking up the Axe, he turned to the wizard, only to see Barbas and Serana finish him off.

"You didn't tell me Lort actually _used_ the Axe on his daughter," Marcus scowled at Barbas, and the Daedric dog whined, ducking his head.

" _Technically, you didn't ask,"_ Barbas said. _"But don't blame me. I tried to stop Vile, but he wouldn't listen to me."_

"So why would you want to go back to him?" Marcus demanded. "If he thinks so little of you, and treats you the way he does, why insist on being reunited?"

" _You don't understand,"_ Barbas whined. _"We're sorta in dis tagedder. I keep him on the straight and narrow, and he protects me from Sheogorath."_

"That doesn't sound like a very fulfilling arrangement to me," Serana sniffed. "Besides, what has Sheogorath got against you?"

" _Mostly Clavicus,"_ Barbas admitted. _"Ya see, the two of dem don't see eye to eye, as it were. Shaggy can't do anyt'ing against Vile, because of the restrictions the Elder Gods placed on the Daedra. But dat doesn't mean he can't do sumpt'ing against Vile's sidekick, in udder words, me."_

"But you haven't been keeping Vile honest," Marcus pointed out.

" _And again, dat's not my fault!"_ Barbas insisted. _"Every so often Vile takes it into his head dat he's bettah off wit'out me. Eventually he sees the error of his ways and takes me back, even if it_ does _take a century or two."_

"You don't deserve to be treated like that, though," Serana said firmly. "Why not just leave Vile? You could be your own…daedra. Do what you want."

" _It's not like dat,"_ Barbas whined. _"He needs me, and I need him. I'm nuttin' wit'out him."_

"My kids don't think so," Marcus pointed out. "Even Lydia was warming up to you, and she's a hard nut to crack."

"I've no doubt you were treated better with Marcus' family than Clavicus Vile has ever been to you," Serana mused.

" _I don't wanna talk about dis anymore,"_ Barbas said, head drooping. _"We'd bettah head back. Vile's waiting."_

Serana would have protested further, but Marcus forestalled her. "Let's go," he said, securing the Axe to his side. "If Barbas insists on going back, we aren't going to change his mind."

Serana looked decidedly unhappy about it, but she said nothing further as they made their way back out to the main road where Marcus summoned Odahviing and they climbed aboard.

" _I'll meet you at Haemar's Shame, then,"_ Barbas said, disappearing from view.

"I wish there was something more we could do to help," Serana complained.

"You can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped," Marcus pointed out. "If this is what Barbas wants, then like it or not, we have to help him get back with Clavicus Vile. I'm just not happy about being used once more to further a Daedra's ambitions."

"You _are_ rather making a habit of it," Serana couldn't help remarking.

"Quiet, little missy," he warned her, but she chuckled and put her arms around his waist as Odahviing lifted off.

Barbas wasn't waiting outside for them when they reached Haemar's Shame, and Marcus and Serana mutually assumed he must be inside at Vile's shrine. They wended their way through the tunnels and caverns and sure enough, the Daedric dog was waiting for them at the foot of his master's statue.

Marcus strode up to the shrine. "We're back, Lord Vile," he said, peremptorily.

" _Ah!"_ Vile exclaimed with delight. _"You've got the Axe! And my dog. Splendid!"_

"So, you'll take Barbas back?" Marcus asked, though he really hoped Vile wouldn't. He was getting rather fond of Barbas by now. This happened frequently in his previous life when his kids would bring home a stray; being the parent in the relationship, he would insist they could keep it until they could find a home for it. In the end, they always ended up keeping the animal, and at one time had three dogs, two cats, a turtle and a skunk they'd found as a baby next to its roadkilled mother. They had Stunky descented and she had been one of his most favorite pets.

Clavicus Vile was speaking again, however, and Marcus forced himself to pay attention.

" _Excellent work,"_ Vile was saying. _"A hero and his faithful companion, retrieving the ancient artifact for the Prince. It's almost…storybook."_ Vile's voice took on a note of calculated cunning. _"Ah, but it almost seems a shame to give a weapon like that away, doesn't it?"_ he cajoled. _"I suppose I could be persuaded to let you keep it…but only if you use the Axe to kill Barbas. Simple as that."_

Serana gasped. "No!"

" _WHAT?"_ Barbas barked in disbelief. _"Vile, that's too low, even for_ YOU!"

Marcus, however, had been expecting something like this. It was too typical of Clavicus Vile to try to welch out on a deal he didn't want to make without offering a deal that was no deal.

"It _is_ a nice Axe," he commented conversationally.

Barbas whined and lowered his head, anticipating the inevitable. Serana glared at Marcus. "You aren't _seriously_ considering that…that…"

"I'm just keeping my options open," Marcus soothed.

" _It's a good option,"_ Vile enthused. _"I could absorb the spirit of poor, dead Barbas. He'd still be reunited with me. And I'm sure Barbas doesn't want me to have that axe. He'd want it this way. The choice is yours, friend,"_ the Daedric Prince said magnanimously. _"We're all counting on you to make the right decision. Put him out of our misery!"_

Marcus was silent for several seconds as he turned things rapidly over in his mind. If he gave Vile the Axe and forced him to take back Barbas, the Daedric Prince would be restored to full power and could wreak all kinds of mischief. If he killed Barbas – which wasn't even a thing he considered doing – Vile would merely absorb the dog's spirit and still come out ahead, Axe or no Axe.

He turned to Barbas.

" _Wait!"_ Barbas insisted, before Marcus could speak. _"There's another alternative. You don't need to kill me. You could have Vile's boon…his mask. That's an incredibly powerful artifact there. People would like you and trust you, and it would help boost your magicka regeneration. Please, don't kill me!"_

"Most people already like and trust me," Marcus pointed out. "And in case you hadn't noticed, I don't really use magicka that much." He could almost feel the approval oozing from Clavicus Vile's statue.

"I'm not going to let you kill him!" Serana growled, bringing up her hands.

"I didn't say I would," Marcus replied calmly. "I only said I was exploring my options. So here's what I'm prepared to do. I'm going to keep your Axe _and_ your dog, Vile," he announced. "Without either of those, you are, by your own admission, pretty weak and pretty well stuck here, and I think that's where I'd like to keep you."

" _WHAT?"_ Vile exploded. _"You can't do that, he's MY dog!"_

"You threw him out," Marcus said equably. "I've taken in strays before, and they've been some of the best companions I've ever had."

" _Now wait a moment,"_ the Daedric Prince insisted. _"Let's be reasonable here. I take back what I said. You can keep the Axe if you want to. I'll let Barbas come back. Get over here, mutt!"_

" _I don't t'ink so,"_ Barbas growled, standing up and moving to Marcus' side. Serana gave a happy chirp and dropped her hands. She saw now what had been Marcus' plan all along.

" _I'm not fooling around, you mangy mutt,"_ Vile warned. _"Get over here, NOW!"_

" _Piss off,"_ Barbas said succinctly. _"You were prepared to have the Dragonborn here kill me just to amuse you. I might only be a lesser daedra to you, but he's treated me with more compassion in t'ree days than you have in t'ree centuries. I'm not stupid. It might do you some good t' sit and stew here for a while, t'inking about how you treat people. Maybe I'll see ya around, Vile."_ He turned to Marcus and Serana. _"Let's go, you two. I t'ink I'd like to play catch with Lucia. It sounded fun."_ He trotted up the steps and headed out of the cavern, back to the entrance, with Marcus and Serana grinning right behind him.

Clavicus Vile raged impotently from his shrine. They could hear him most of the way back.

" _Wait! Dragonborn! Barbas! Come back! I'll admit I was wrong, but give me back my dog and I'll give you anything you want. Money. Power. I can make you Emperor! Dragonborn! Baaaarrrrbaaaaasss!"_

Outside Haemar's Shame, Barbas let out a heavy sigh and slumped to the ground.

" _I can't believe he was gonna have you kill me!"_ he whispered.

"I never would have done that," Marcus assured him.

" _I know dat now,"_ Barbas said, sitting up. _"But I'll admit ya gave me a heart attack for a moment there. What happens now?"_

"Well, I thought you wanted to go back to Whiterun and play catch with Lucia," Marcus smiled.

" _I just said dat to make Vile mad,"_ Barbas admitted. _"I didn't t'ink you'd really want me around."_

"Why wouldn't I, Barbas?" Marcus insisted. "I'm serious. For as long as I live, my home is yours if you want it."

" _You won't regret that, Dragonborn!"_ Barbas barked happily, wagging his tail. _"I know I'll hafta go back to Vile eventually, but not until he sees the light."_

"Sounds like that could take a while," Serana drawled.

* * *

When they returned to Whiterun, a courier ran up to Marcus.

"What's this?" he asked.

"A letter from Proventus Avenicci," the courier said. "Looks like that's it. Got to go." The young man headed out the gate at a dead run.

" _Dose guys have got a lotta fortitude,"_ Barbas remarked.

"Throwing your Voice again, Dragonborn?" one of the guards remarked as she passed by. "That was good. I could have sworn it came from your dog."

"I've been practicing," Marcus said quickly. Under his breath he said to Serana and Barbas, "That might be a bit of a problem. I forgot other people can hear you, too, Barbas."

" _Sorry,"_ Barbas apologized. _"I'm only a lesser Daedra. I can't use the inside voice like Vile and Hircine can do."_

"Vile didn't use it for us," Serana observed.

" _He's quirky like that,"_ was all Barbas would say.

Inside Breezehome Lucia and Alesan were playing Castles and Kings, but stood up and rushed to their father immediately on seeing Barbas.

"I thought we couldn't keep him?" Alesan asked, rubbing the dog's ears. Barbas closed his eyes and leaned into the gesture of affection.

" _Plans have changed, kid,"_ Barbas said happily. _"I t'ink I'll be staying, for a while, anyway."_

"YAY!" Lucia crowed, while Alesan shouted, "Alright! We've got a dog!"

"You just can't tell anyone he's a Daedra, understand?" Marcus told them. "Most people around here wouldn't understand. Lydia?" he asked, turning to his Housecarl. "Are you alright with this?"

"I suppose I'll get used to him," she answered. "At least he's got more sense than an ordinary dog, and knows enough to keep out from underfoot."

" _Yeah, t'anks, I think,"_ Barbas snorted. _"I like you, too, sweetness."_

Lydia rolled her eye. "What's that, my Thane?" she asked now, indicating the letter he still held.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he answered, opening it. He scanned the contents quickly and broke into a grin. "Lucia!" he called. "Come with me. Steward Avenicci thinks he may have located your farm!"

"Can I come too, Dad?" Alesan asked.

"Absolutely," Marcus affirmed. "Don't forget your weapons, son. According to this, the location is beyond the western Watchtower. The land gets a bit rough out that way. Serana?"

"If you don't mind, Marcus," Serana declined. "I need some sleep, and later on…a meal. I'll catch up to you tonight. I assume you'll be back by then."

He nodded. "Of course. I've been pushing you a bit hard lately. Lydia," he said, turning to his Housecarl. "Get your gear. I'll need you to come with me."

A broad smile lit up her face. "Of course, Thane! I'll be a moment."

" _I'll come, too,"_ Barbas offered. _"I wouldn't mind seeing something more of Skyrim than Falkreath."_

While he waited for his family to prepare themselves, Marcus slipped over to Warmaiden's to let Blaise know of his intentions.

"Adrianne wanted to talk with you, Dad, if you've got a moment," his son told him.

Marcus nodded. The boy didn't look like it was good news.

Adrianne was propped up in her bed, a cane within easy reach.

"Marcus!" she smiled. "I'm glad to have caught you. Blaise must have told you I wanted to talk to you."

"How are you feeling, Adrianne?" he asked solicitously.

The Imperial smith sighed. "Better, but not one-hundred percent," she admitted. "I know you travel a lot. Have you been in Riften recently?"

Marcus thought back. It had probably been at least a couple of weeks since he had last been in what he privately thought of as the armpit of Skyrim.

"No, not recently," he admitted. "Why?"

Adrianne sighed again. "There's been another vampire attack there. It seemed to have been very well planned."

Marcus felt a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Who died?" he asked simply. She wouldn't have broached the subject with him if no one had lost their life.

"Bersi Honey-Hand's wife Drifa," she replied. "He owns the Pawned Prawn general store. Also Grelka, who sold weapons and armor in the market stall. Her brothers are Solaf and Bolund, in Falkreath. And Asbjorn Fire-Tamer, Balimund's apprentice at the Scorched Hammer."

Marcus stood and paced the floor. "Damn it!" he exclaimed. "Adrianne, I'm sorry," he said, feeling the need to apologize. "I'm getting to the bottom of this whole vampire menace, but—"

"Calm down, Marcus," Adrianne insisted. "No one's blaming you. They all know the Dragonborn is working on the problem, and they all know it isn't going to get solved overnight. But it presents an opportunity for Blaise that he might not otherwise have."

"What do you mean?" Marcus asked, settling back down on the chair. "Blaise is apprenticed to you."

"But I'm not going to get any better," Adrianne said sadly. She held up her hand as Marcus would have protested. "No, it's true. I can feel it. My hands aren't as strong as they should be, and I can't grip a hammer or tongs the way I should. My leg may never recover. It hurts to stand for very long."

"Adrianne, I promise you when Tamsyn—"

"It may already be too late by the time she gets back from Cyrodiil, Marcus," Adrianne smiled tremulously. "I've already accepted the fact that I won't be able to compete with Eorlund Grey-Mane as the best smith in Whiterun. But I'm not going to hamstring Blaise's chances, either, and that means sending him to someone who needs the help, and who can teach him what he still needs to learn. I've already written to Balimund and asked him to help me out. He's willing to take on your son, if you're willing to let the boy go."

Marcus said thoughtfully, "He's hardly a boy anymore. He'll be sixteen in a few months. Have you mentioned it to Blaise?"

Adrianne nodded. "He's waiting for your answer downstairs now. I asked him not to say anything to you about it until I had a chance to talk with you first."

"Thank you, Adrianne," Marcus said gratefully. "For everything you've done for Blaise." He took her hand and shook it, then leaned in for a hug before leaving to speak with his older son.

Blaise was waiting tentatively in the shop, pretending to polish a shield in the corner. He stood when he father came down the stairs.

"Well?" he gulped.

Marcus smiled. "Is this what you want?" he asked.

"No," Blaise said honestly. "I don't want to abandon Ulfberth and Adrianne, especially after everything they've done for me, but Adrianne insists this is for the best."

"Balimund's a good man," Marcus nodded. "He'll be able to help you complete your training. And you'll be able to help him out, since he's short-handed at the moment. Here," he dug into his belt pouch and pulled out a small key. "This is the key to Honeyside, the house I own there. It's yours now, son. You might still be an apprentice, but in a few months' time you'll be sixteen, and by the laws of Skyrim that will make you a man. And a man needs a place of his own."

"Thanks, Dad," Blaise said, throwing himself at his father and hugging him tight. "I'll be sure to make you proud of me."

Marcus blinked back the stinging in his eyes. His voice, which could smite down dragons and breathe fire on his enemies strained past vocal chords that suddenly constricted as he choked out, "I already am."

* * *

 _[No additional Author's Note from me this time. We'll be heading back to Cyrodiil next to see what the ladies are up to.]_


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Tamsyn studied her traveling companion carefully as they made their way to Applewatch. Sylfaen Telperion was decidedly unhappy about having been exposed. Without her leather mask and Thalmor robes to hide behind, she insisted on pulling her cowl low over her face and keeping her head down. She had yanked the sleeves of her gown down her arms as far as they would go, but it still didn't completely cover her pale, white hands.

"Must we go through Applewatch?" she complained more than once.

"It's the last place we can buy supplies before we make for the border," Tamsyn told her.

"And I say again, we let a perfectly good wagon leave for the Pale Pass without us in it," the Snow Elf sniffed. "That doesn't seem like very good planning on your part."

"You escaping wasn't in my plans, either," Tamsyn replied sourly. "How did you do it, by the way?"

"Why should I tell you?" Sylfaen demanded haughtily. "I might need to use that technique again at some point in the future."

"Just trying to get along," Tamsyn muttered. "Besides, I was curious. I thought Cicero had you tied up as tight as a tick."

"What is a tick?"

"It's a small, blood-sucking insect," Tamsyn said pleasantly, enjoying the look that crossed the elf's face; clearly she knew an insult when she heard one. "In any case, we have a long way to go. I'm just trying to make pleasant conversation."

"Comparing me to a blood-sucking insect is hardly pleasant conversation," Sylfaen scowled. "Besides, you're supposed to be this famous Seer. You figure it out."

"It doesn't work that way!" Tamsyn said in exasperation, and not for the first time. "Alright, then. Fine. My guess is that you might have had a small knife hidden somewhere up your sleeve, that you must have palmed when I was changing you into those clothes. But that wouldn't make sense since there was no place you could have hidden one from me while I dressed you."

"You're not even warm," Sylfaen gloated, a smug smile on her face. "Keep guessing."

"Well," Tamsyn frowned, thinking hard. "You could have grabbed a sharp piece of stone or pottery from Cloud Ruler Temple when we lay down to sleep last night. It would have taken you that long to cut through the ropes on your wrists."

"Wrong again!" the elf woman smirked. "You're really bad at this, aren't you?"

Tamsyn scowled. There had to be a perfectly simple explanation for how the Thalmor Justiciar had gotten herself free without Argis or Cicero being alerted, but she simply couldn't think of one.

"I'm sure it will come to me, eventually," Tamsyn shrugged, pretending not to care, but she knew she wasn't fooling Sylfaen, as the woman gave an indulgent chuckle.

The road was empty, and they only saw the occasional deer bounding away as they approached. They stopped when the sun hung high overhead to eat a meager meal from the few rations of dried beef and bread that Tamsyn had secured from the wagon before the men left, and were forced to share a skin of wine to wash it down, since there was no stream nearby. Tamsyn would have preferred water. Too much of her previous life had been spent in a drunken stupor to engage in that sort of recklessness now. Besides, she needed to keep a clear head.

"How much farther to Applewatch, do you think?" Sylfaen asked. "These are not the best kind of shoes in which to be hiking the back country."

"These aren't much better," Tamsyn agreed ruefully. "But if we keep going at the pace we've set, we should get there before nightfall."

"And if we don't?"

"Then we keep going in the dark until we get there," Tamsyn snapped. "Honestly, Justiciar, I'm doing what I promised you I would do. The least you can do is be pleasant about it. You've won, after all."

"Have I?" the Snow Elf countered. "You're holding knowledge of my people hostage for your own freedom, when by rights I should haul you back to the Imperial City and let Gwaiden and his cronies torture the information from you."

"You know it wouldn't work," Tamsyn argued back. "I was able to withstand your particular ministrations. Physical torture is unpleasant, but mental rape is worse. Is that how you became so successful in the faction? By probing people's minds?"

"It had its uses," Sylfaen said stiffly. "Believe me, it isn't any more pleasant for me than it would be for my..."

"Victims," Tamsyn said harshly. "Call them what they are, Justiciar. Innocent people whose only crime is worshipping a hero-god you despise."

"Deviating from prescribed law is the first indication of rebellion," Sylfaen insisted, her voice rising.

"A law that never should have been included in the White-Gold Concordat to begin with!" Tamsyn shouted back. "A law that was specifically designed to keep the Nords dead-set against the Empire just so the Dominion could keep the Empire on a tether! The Dominion doesn't give a flying skeever's backside about Talos. Spare me all that rhetoric about him not being a real god. I've met the man. Even Akatosh acknowledges his divinity!"

There was stunned silence, and if possible, the Justiciar went several shades paler.

"Do not _dare_ to blaspheme to _me!"_ she hissed.

"It ain't blasphemin' if it's true," Tamsyn said calmly. "Honestly, Justiciar, don't you pick up and read the papers now and then? I'm sure you've heard by now how my husband went to Sovngarde to kill Alduin. Well, I was there with him. That was a year and a half ago. I know we live up in Skyrim, but news of that magnitude _has_ to have trickled down to Cyrodiil by now."

"We heard that someone called the 'Dragonborn' killed a black dragon that was terrorizing the countryside," Sylfaen sniffed. "That's hardly cause for worldwide celebration."

"You're a terrible liar," Tamsyn said quietly. "You know darn well the significance of what Marcus did. And it scares you. It scares the Dominion. Power like that, not controlled by them? They probably had heart palpitations when they found out."

Sylfaen frowned, but said nothing. In truth, the Arch-Mage wasn't far off the mark. The Dominion _had_ been shaken to its foundation at the news of a new Dragonborn rising. When word had reached the Summerset Isles that he was an Imperial, they had scrambled to send operatives into Skyrim to learn more of this man – known only as the Dragonborn – before someone finally put two and two together and figured out that he was none other than 'Marcus of Whiterun', an Imperial of unknown origins.

When it became apparent that the Dragonborn seemed to be mediating aggressions between the Empire and the Stormcloaks – completely counter to the Dominions desires – steps had been taken to eliminate him, but all had failed. The man seemed to be living a charmed life; assassins never returned, emissaries were murdered in their own embassies, and the Thalmor had been categorically shut out of the 'peace talks' at High Hrothgar, under the explanation that it was merely an 'internal affair until the dragons were dealt with.'

Well, the dragons _had_ been dealt with – at least, the biggest one had. There were still reports of dragon attacks, however, and hostilities appeared to have resumed between Imperial and Stormcloak troops. The fact that the Reach was now being run by someone with known sympathies to the Forsworn was not lost on Sylfaen, or anyone of her acquaintance. But Jarl Nepos had been very accommodating, insisting he was only interim Jarl, and assuring their representatives that Talos would not be worshipped in the Reach as long as he was in charge. And that would have been acceptable, except that there had appeared to be some kind of Forsworn take-over of a Dwemer ruin near the border with Haafingar. They had done nothing further, and appeared to be merely occupying the ruins, but the reports Gwaiden – and by extension, Sylfaen herself – had received seemed to indicate it bore watching.

The Dominion was spread a bit thin right now, though. There weren't enough Justiciars to cover all the 'hot spots' out there that 'bore watching.' It was nothing she would ever admit to the Arch-Mage, however. Words like that tended to end up in places they shouldn't.

"You've really been to Sovngarde?" the elf woman asked finally, in a quiet voice.

Tamsyn nodded. "I was really there. So was Marcus. So was Talos."

"And the other Divines?"

"They were all there," Tamsyn admitted. It was common knowledge to most Nords by this time, the tale having lost nothing in the retelling. She didn't see the need to keep it from the Justiciar. "You can't remake Nirn in your own image," she said. "Only the Divines can do that. The Dominion has this misguided belief that by wiping out all the other races, they can regain what they lost when Lorkhan created Mundus. And they've convinced generations of Altmer to believe it to the point of indisputable fact. But they're wrong. And you're not Altmer, Sylfaen. You're a Falmer; you're a Snow Elf. You're as much a victim of Altmer genocide as the rest of us. Which really makes me wonder if you aren't fighting on the wrong side."

She stood then, and shouldered her pack. "If you're done eating we should get moving. We still have a long way to go." She headed up the road towards Applewatch, confident the Snow Elf wouldn't be far behind. But it was a very troubled Thalmor Justiciar who followed in her wake.

* * *

Applewatch was nothing more than a cluster of farm buildings, a wide spot in the road. Tamsyn had hoped to find more of an established small town here after the two hundred year interim between the Oblivion Crisis and now, but the people who lived here – the Draconis family – were pleasant enough, and willingly sold them whatever food and cold-weather gear they could spare.

"On a Pilgrimage up to the Shrine?" Luther Draconis asked, trying hard not to stare at the elf who kept her head down, her face turned away, and her hands shoved up her sleeves.

"Yes," Tamsyn replied, not elaborating. "About how far is it from here?"

"In miles, it's hard to say," Luther admitted. "The path twists and turns a lot. However, I'd say it will be full dark in an hour, and you won't make it there before then. Why not stay here for the night? I could put you up in the barn. It's no inn, but it's better than sleeping out in the open."

"You have a bed, don't you?" Sylfaen began, but Tamsyn cut her off.

"The barn will be fine, Luther, thank you," she said hurriedly, handing over a few more coins for his generosity.

Sylfaen bristled, but said nothing as they made their way to the hayloft.

"Are you seriously expecting me to sleep in…in a cow's bed?" the Justiciar demanded.

"It's not his bed," Tamsyn said, wrinkling her nose at the pungent odor of manure. "Technically, it's his food cupboard. And I'm not going to throw the poor farmer out of _his_ bed just so you can sleep like a princess. I'm sure you've been in places where a bed was never guaranteed before, Justiciar. Get used to roughing it."

"This is unconscionable!" Sylfaen protested. "I am a Justiciar of the Aldmeri Dominion—"

"—with an inflated sense of entitlement," Tamsyn said sharply. "Get over yourself. We want to keep a low profile, remember? Just in case your Thalmor buddies are looking for you."

"You won't be able to hold that over my head much longer," Sylfaen gritted out. "As soon as I determine the veracity of your claim I'm taking you back to the Imperial City."

"We'll see," Tamsyn said ambiguously. "Until then, I suggest we both settle down and get a good night's sleep. We'll want to get on the road at first light."

Sylfaen grumbled some more, but eventually settled down in a pile of freshly-mown hay and was soon fast asleep…or at least, she appeared to be sleeping.

For her own part, Tamsyn was exhausted, but was too tense to sleep easily. What would prevent the Justiciar from bundling her up and carting her back to the Imperial City if she allowed herself the luxury of sleep? Still, the lure of finding out about a settlement of her own people seemed to be a strong enough enticement for the Snow Elf to even consider traveling with her 'prisoner' all the way to the northwestern corner of Skyrim.

For the moment, all Tamsyn hoped to achieve was to get through the snowy passes of the Jeralls and make their way to Falkreath. From there they could easily follow the road up to Whiterun. She could let Marcus know she was alright, see the kids again, and pick up supplies for the journey through Darkfall Cave.

She chaffed a little at the thought of that. Darkfall Cave, she knew, was a Falmer-infested warren of caverns and tunnels, and these Falmer looked nothing like her current traveling companion. Had it not been for the Justiciar's presence, she could have flown over the mountains to the Forgotten Vale with the power of her Ring of Flying. But since she still didn't trust the elf woman, she had no intention of revealing that she had such a powerful item in her possession.

There was a possibility, however, that she could get Marcus to call Odahviing and have him take them over the mountaintops. Tamsyn was certain that once the Justiciar had met with Gelebor and Vyrthur, she would be furious with her at being duped into believing there were more than just two Snow Elves left in the world. But by then, Tamsyn would be long gone, either by dragonback, or by Ring. It would put the woman far enough out of their way that she might never find her way back to Cyrodiil.

Happy to have come up with a plan, Tamsyn settled down into the hay and was soon fast asleep.

She awoke to being poked and prodded. The Snow Elf was glaring at her.

"I'll say it again," she sniffed. "You sleep very soundly for someone who should be alert to what's going on around her."

"Wha—" Tamsyn murmured drowsily. She was dreaming she was back in Whiterun, and Marcus was just about to kiss her when a guard pulled her away.

"It's morning," Sylfaen said in a flat tone. "Wake up."

Tamsyn stared around at the hayloft as realization returned.

"I like sleep," she grumbled. "I need it like I need air."

Almost unwillingly, a half-smile quirked the corner of the Snow Elf's mouth. "The sleep deprivation therapy must have been horrible for you."

"You have no idea," Tamsyn growled.

"Still, you proved you're more than capable of withstanding standard interrogation techniques," Sylfaen said, almost admiringly. "Just what is it about you, Arch-Mage? I still don't understand how you were able to keep me out of your mind, much less how you managed to get inside mine."

"Tell me how you escaped Cicero's bindings," Tamsyn countered, getting up and brushing off remnants of hay, "and maybe I'll consider confiding a few secrets of my own."

"Not a chance," Sylfaen grimaced.

Tamsyn shrugged. "Suit yourself. Did you want to eat now or wait until we get on the road?"

"Please, let's get away from this…this _smell,"_ Sylfaen begged. "It's enough to put a troll off his appetite!"

Tamsyn laughed out loud, surprising the Justiciar, who allowed a small smile. "I didn't think it was _that_ funny," she commented as they descended the ladder.

"Trust me, it was," Tamsyn grinned. "I've been inside a troll's lair."

She didn't elaborate, and Sylfaen found herself once more re-evaluating what she knew of the Arch-Mage. To all outward appearances she was a young Breton girl – hardly out of her teens – who had somehow become the leader of the College of Mages in Winterhold, wife to the Dragonborn and mother to his brood. Admittedly, all the children had been adopted, but Tamsyn was apparently able to juggle being Arch-Mage with being a mother as well. She had withstood some of the deepest probing Sylfaen had ever been forced to use to gain information, and that was something that bothered her the most.

It usually never took more than a few moments of being inside someone's mind for her to find the information she needed. The very act of probing another's mind left her vulnerable, but ninety-nine out of a hundred 'detainees' never had the mental capabilities to resist, much less stage a counter attack, as the Arch-Mage had done. Sylfaen had to admit she knew less about the Breton girl now than she had before. There was a very deep mystery here concerning her, and Sylfaen hated mysteries.

Worse still, she found herself questioning her own loyalties to the Dominion. Her dreams last night had been a convoluted whirlpool of disjointed memories. Some of them were so old, she could not now remember if the events had actually happened, or if she had somehow made them up. The exodus had been real; that much she knew. When it became apparent that Ysgramor was their doom, many of her people had fled Saarthal, Sylfaen among them. Some had gone with the Snow Prince to Solstheim, to launch a last desperate stand against the Nord invaders. Sylfaen had been with those who stayed behind. She had argued against bargaining with the Deep Elves, the Dwemer; that mysterious, coldly analytical race of elves had at first refused them refuge, but then changed their collective minds. They offered a Daedra's deal: safety, at a price to be named later. Sylfaen left with a much smaller group of refugees protected by curates, acolytes and knight-paladins, parting sorrowfully from their brethren who felt the security of the Dwemer halls would protect them from the Atmoran invasion. News had come much later of the fate of her people at Dwemer hands, but by then it was too late.

Sylfaen shook her head to clear it. She refused to think about that now. She couldn't deny the Arch-Mage's words had disturbed her. Why had she stayed with the Dominion? She knew the answer even as her mind posed it. She stayed because she'd had little choice. There was no place in Tamriel where the Dominion couldn't find her. She would never be able to live and breathe free again; she must remain disguised, hiding her true self from all who knew her.

 _Even me._

They reached the Shrine to Hermaeus Mora around midday. For the last several miles, they had passed pilgrims going to and fro on the road. But while several had sent curious glances their way, no one stopped to ask them questions.

"Are we stopping at the Shrine?" Sylfaen asked.

"Oh, good gods, no!" Tamsyn exclaimed. "The _last_ thing I want to do is talk to a Daedric Prince! Especially Hermaeus Mora!"

"Why especially him?"

"Daedric Prince of Hidden Knowledge and Secrets?" Tamsyn reminded her. "Not a good idea." She wouldn't elaborate further, but instead picked up her pace and continued on down the path that led away from the shrine. Sylfaen hurried to keep up with her.

 _How very interesting,_ the Justiciar thought. _The Arch-Mage has secrets even Hermaeus Mora doesn't know? No wonder she doesn't want to stay._

It made her wonder once more just what there was about the Arch-Mage that was so different. But the Breton girl wasn't stopping to wait for her, and the Snow Elf was forced to hurry to keep up. Eventually after another half hour or so, Tamsyn finally came to a halt. She waited for Sylfaen to catch up to her – breathing hard and thoroughly irritated – and pointed to the north.

"See there?" she asked. "That's where we're headed. We can work our way through the valleys and come out near Falkreath."

"Have you ever been through those passes?" Sylfaen asked, frowning.

"No," Tamsyn admitted, "but it doesn't look that bad. We've got enough food for a few days. It shouldn't take that long to get through the mountains."

"If it was easy, everyone would be doing it," Sylfaen pointed out. "Why do you think they all go through Pale Pass?"

"Because the Empire can charge a toll for every wagon and pedestrian who crosses over into Skyrim," Tamsyn replied blandly.

"You _do_ realize what will happen to us if we're caught crossing the border illegally, don't you?" the Snow Elf scowled.

"Yes," Tamsyn nodded. "But they have to catch us first." She gave an impish smile and hefted her pack higher on her shoulders. "Come on. The cold weather gear we bought from Luther is about to be put to the test."

"This can't end well," Sylfaen grumbled, adjusting her own back pack and following the Arch-Mage.

Four hours later she was exhausted, frozen, soaked to her skin and irritated beyond all tolerance. They had only succeeded in traveling about six miles, and were already losing the light as the sun slid down behind the Jeralls. Worse, it had begun to snow.

"This was a fine idea of yours," she shouted accusingly to Tamsyn above the whine of the wind, which was picking up, whirling snow in their eyes and faces. "I don't imagine you know of an inn nearby? Or perhaps a farmhouse? Divines, I'd even take a smelly, cow-infested barn right now!"

"I told you we'd have to rough it," Tamsyn said, trying not to lose her own patience. "Just give me a moment, and I'll see if there's a cave nearby."

"You're not leaving me here!" In spite of herself, Sylfaen couldn't quite hide the thread of panic that laced her voice.

"Don't compare me to your Thalmor friends," Tamsyn scowled. "I gave you my word to take you to your people, and I intend to do that. And I'm not going to leave you here alone." _Though if you keep complaining, I won't be responsible for my actions,_ she couldn't help thinking.

Both women had cast repeated Flame Cloaks around themselves for the warmth. The side benefit was that it melted the snow around them, making traveling through hip-high drifts a bit easier. Tamsyn concentrated on exactly what she needed and cast her Clairvoyance, which sent out a purplish-black column of magical smoke ahead of her. It bent towards the west, so she motioned to Sylfaen to follow. The Snow Elf had cast a Candlelight spell above her head as the shadows had lengthened. That and the Flame Cloak was enough to keep lesser predators such as skeevers and wolves away, but it would not have deterred a hungry troll or a curious dragon. She shivered in spite of the Flame Cloak.

The snow was falling thicker and faster now and the winds were whipping it like stinging needles into their exposed flesh. Tamsyn led the way, following her Clairvoyance spell, until at length they saw ahead of them an overhanging ledge of rock jutting out from the side of the mountain. They had no idea how large or deep the cave was, but it would be better than spending the night exposed to the elements. Tamsyn and Sylfaen reached the cave just as the storm unleashed its full fury. The winds began to howl, and all features of the surrounding landscape were suddenly lost in a complete and total white-out. They retreated several yards inside, and realized at once that it was more of a tunnel than a cave, and went much further back into the darkness.

"I don't like having an open cavern behind us," Sylfaen said with a frown. She didn't voice her own fears that the race her people had devolved into, the Falmer, very often used tunnels like these to connect to the surface to hunt. Humans were their preferred prey, but they would take what they could get.

"We don't have much choice," Tamsyn replied. "We can't go any further in the dark, or in that storm. It would be suicide to try."

"Well, at least we can get a small fire going," Sylfaen suggested. "There's enough dry stuff in here to burn. Looks like some hunters might have been using this place as a shelter."

"That's not a very good idea," Tamsyn said, shaking her head. "That much concentrated heat inside a cave might cause fracturing of the rock over our heads. It could bring it down on top of us."

"What do you suggest, then?" the former Justiciar demanded. "These wet clothes are decidedly uncomfortable, and could bring on a chill."

"We can heat some rocks here, near the entrance," Tamsyn suggested. "If we stick close to them, we'll be warm enough, and there's less risk of a potential cave-in."

"Hmm," Sylfaen nodded. "It might do. Alright, I'll warm them up if you bring them here."

Tamsyn noted immediately that the elf woman had chosen the easier task. Shrugging, she threw off a Candlelight spell and retreated further back into the cave to find some larger stones they could use that wouldn't be too heavy for her to carry.

It took three trips, but soon they had a small ring of head-sized stones that Sylfaen gradually heated up with concentrated blasts of fire from her hands. When the stones glowed a dull red, the two women sighed in relief and broke into their packs for a quick, silent meal before settling down for the night. With no additional clothing to change into, they could only endure the dampness as their garments dried on them. Because of the storm raging outside, and the heat of the stones within, Tamsyn felt certain nothing would bother them that night. She felt only slightly nervous about the open cavern at their backs, but a quick spell determined there was nothing living in the immediate area.

She woke to an annoying jab in her ribs. She had been dreaming she was back home, in Whiterun, and Marcus had been trying to poke her to get her attention.

"Wha…what Marcus?" she mumbled, opening her eyes.

Six faces surrounded her, weapons at the ready. One of the faces belonged to an older man who had been poking her with the butt end of his spear.

She sat bolt upright, immediately waking Sylfaen, who appeared to be a light sleeper.

"What's going on?" the elf demanded imperiously, bringing electricity into her hands. "Who are you people?"

"A bit less aggressively, please, Sylfaen," Tamsyn muttered. "And for Divines' sake, lower your hands! They've got the drop on us."

After a strained moment of careful consideration, Sylfaen lowered her hands.

"Who among you is leader?" Tamsyn asked, forcing a smile to her face.

The men and women stared at her, then broke into a sibilant language she knew all too well.

" _Fos fen mu dreh voth niin?"_ one of them, a female, asked. _What should we do with them?_

" _Nust los zuruniik,"_ said another, a younger man. _"Nust los ni valokein het."_ _They are strangers. They are not welcome here._

It was the language of the dov, and Tamsyn's smile grew wider. _"Dii faan los Tamsyn,"_ she said, introducing herself. She pointed to the woman with her. _"Daar los dii zeymahzin Sylfaen. Wo los hin kinbok?" Who is your leader?_

Immediately a babble of shock and surprise swept through the small group. They were speaking too rapidly and too quietly for Tamsyn to understand them clearly, but she did hear one say in Dovahzul, _"She speaks the tongue of the old ones!"_

"What are they babbling about?" Sylfaen frowned. "Is that even a language? It sounds like animals yelping to me."

"It's Dovahzul," Tamsyn said firmly. "It's the language of the dragons."

"Truly?" Sylfaen's eyebrows rose higher on her forehead. "And you speak it?"

"Of course I do!" the Arch-Mage snorted. "I'm married to the Dragonborn, after all. We associate with dragons quite a bit. It only stood to reason to learn their tongue."

"Fascinating," the Snow Elf murmured.

One of the group, the oldest one who had poked her in the ribs, came forward. With difficulty, he spoke slowly in the common tongue of Tamriel.

"Who are you, who knows the…old tongue?" he asked, curious.

Tamsyn pulled herself up to her full height – five feet, four inches – but still had to look up to meet the old man's eyes. She raised her chin a bit and said quietly, "As I told you, my name is Tamsyn, and this is Sylfaen. We are merely travelers, wishing to cross your land. We have no intention of staying, or hunting in these parts. We only wish to pass through unharmed."

"Why are you here, in this cave?" the leader demanded, a bit more sharply.

"The storm drove us in here," Sylfaen said, and to her credit, she pulled back on the arrogance with which she usually addressed those she deemed inferior to herself.

"Then you did not come here to hunt?" he pressed.

"No, I promise you," Tamsyn insisted. "We only came here to get out of the weather."

He drew back and conferred briefly and quietly with the others. When he turned to the two women again he asked, "You are spellcasters?"

Since Sylfaen had already called magic into her hands, it would have been pointless to deny it. Add to that the fact that neither woman carried a weapon of any kind, except the staves holstered on their backs.

"Yes," Tamsyn admitted, "but I promise you—"

"Do you know healing magic?"

Tamsyn stopped. Healing magic? They needed a healer? Well now, this changed everything.

"As it happens," she smiled kindly, "yes, I know quite a bit of healing magic. Sylfaen?"

"Yes," the elf woman admitted almost grudgingly. "I'm quite capable of using Restoration magic, though usually only for myself."

"Come with me," the old man said. "I am Peliik," he added, by way of introduction. "I am the Lore Keeper."

" _Fos dreh hi dreh, Peliik?"_ one of the woman demanded.

" _Nust fen koraav Golmonah, Ziiven,"_ he admonished her. _"Rek komaan waan nust los gein."_

"What are they saying?" Sylfaen demanded in a whisper.

"They're taking us to someone named 'Earth Mother'," Tamsyn explained. "Peliik says that she'll decide if we're the ones."

"The ones?" the Snow Elf blinked. "Which ones?"

"I don't know," Tamsyn said. "I guess we'll find out. There's something very odd going on here."

"You aren't telling me anything I don't already know," Sylfaen snorted. "There aren't supposed to be people living up in these mountains at all. As far as anyone ever knew, this was one of the most desolate places in Cyrodiil."

"To be fair, we're almost in Skyrim," Tamsyn pointed out, "but close enough. What I'm more curious about is how they've evolved speaking almost exclusively in Dovahzul."

To that they had no answer, and they followed along silently in Peliik's wake, cautiously surrounded by the other five tribe members. Tamsyn studied them as they walked along, and came to the conclusion that they resembled the Reachfolk in looks, but clearly had elven influence in their heritage. Ziiven's ears were longer and more tapered than Peliik's. Their clothing reminded her of the Skaal from Solstheim, though neither she nor Marcus had been there yet. So many questions whirled through her mind, but she had the distinct feeling that any answers she might get hinged on whether this Earth Mother of theirs approved of her and Sylfaen.

She was probably the tribe shaman, and if that was the case, Tamsyn felt confident she could win the wise woman over. She might even be able to share some knowledge with her, if the woman was kind and had her tribe's best interests at heart.

The passage they travelled through eventually opened into a huge cavern whose ceiling rose out of sight, with the exception of a smudge of lighter gray against the darkness at the top. A huge hole had broken through the roof of the cave at some point in time, and over the centuries, seeds and soil blown in by the wind had created an amazing grotto of incredible beauty. During a normal, sunny day, the image would have been breathtaking. A stream gurgled its way through the cavern, and steam rose up languidly from its surface.

"Excuse me, Peliik," she couldn't help asking, "is that hot water in that stream?"

"Yes," he nodded. "It comes out of the ground that way and pools near where it exits the cave. That is where we bathe and clean our clothing."

"Oh. My. Gods," Tamsyn practically drooled. "A hot bath!"

"Please tell me we get to take advantage of that!" Sylfaen murmured.

Peliik said nothing, but the corner of his mouth lifted.

He led them through a fairly large village of rude huts made of wattle and daub, roofed over lightly with thatch. Protected from most of Tamriel's harshest weather, nothing more was really needed. The geothermal dynamics going on underground also lent warmth to the cave, and Peliik soon opened his coat and took his hat off his bald head. Tamsyn could see scores of tattoos encircling it, but his face was clear. When Tamsyn asked Peliik about them, he told her each symbol represented a story he had learned by heart. Judging from the number of tattoos, Peliik had committed a _lot_ of tribal lore to memory.

Beyond the village was a path that led to the far side of the cavern, which must have been right under the mountain. It was dimmer in this area, with not as many torches set about. There was an enormous mound near the far wall, and it was to this that Peliik led them. Tamsyn strained to see what kind of structure this was. The wise woman probably lived in a hut separate from the rest of the village.

When the mound moved, both woman stepped back startled. When it spoke, Tamsyn was stunned.

" _Wo los daar zuruniik, Peliik?"_ it rumbled. _"Druv lost hi drun niin wah zey?"_

" _Mu rund niin lov havaat, Golmonah,"_ Peliik said respectfully, bowing. _"Mu lor nust uld kos gein."_

" _Vrah?"_ the voice replied skeptically. _"Drun niin strin."_

Sylfaen clearly didn't want to go any closer to the dark mass in the shadows. Tamsyn had a feeling she knew what it was, and the implications sent her mind reeling. She gently took the Snow Elf's hand and pulled her forward, bowing respectfully, as Peliik had done.

"Bring more light, Peliik," the deep voice said now, in the common tongue. "I would put our guests at ease."

Several villagers scurried to bring in more torches.

"Are we your guests?" Sylfaen couldn't help asking, nervously. "Or are we your prisoners?"

The voice huffed and wheezed, and while Sylfaen didn't seem reassured, Tamsyn knew the sound for what it was: the sound of a dragon laughing. And indeed, when the torches were brought closer, they saw before them the figure of a large green dragon, sitting awkwardly on an enormous bed of straw.

"Not too close, _mal gein,"_ the dragon murmured indulgently, nuzzling the youngster attempting to set the torch near her straw. "You don't want to set my bed on fire, do you?" It gave another chuckle as the girl shook her head furiously and moved back several paces.

"You're a dragon!" Sylfaen blurted.

"You're a _female_ dragon!" Tamsyn breathed in wonder. "I didn't know any existed!"

"I am as my mother Kyne made me," the dragon replied simply. "I am Golmonah – Earth Mother, as the Strunmah Jooriin call me."

"Mountain People," Tamsyn translated. "Is that who all these people are?"

Golmonah ducked her head in a nod. "I see you have some knowledge of Dovahzul, traveler. Yes. They are descended from the people who originally inhabited these lands, before the elves and the men of Atmora drove them into the hills. They have lived here quietly for many ages while the world outside turned around them. They are forgotten, and they prefer it to be that way."

"How is it a dragon rules them?" Sylfaen asked.

"Rule them?" Golmonah repeated, crestfallen. "I do not rule them. They do not serve me. They come to me for advice, and I help them as I can. I owe them my life, and so my life is pledged to them."

"Your life?" Tamsyn asked. She had been studying the dragon as they spoke, and saw at once that all was not well with Golmonah.

"It is a long story," Golmonah said now. "And I will tell it to you if you will listen. You see, I believe you may be able to help me."

She turned her great emerald head towards Peliik, who was standing by, listening without interfering. "Would you see that they are giving food and drink and other comforts as they are needed, Peliik?" she asked him. "I hope you may be right, and that these may be the ones whose coming was foretold to me."

"I shall see to it personally, Monah," Peliik smiled. "This way, if you please, honored guests."

The two women followed Peliik back to the village where they were given a small hut for privacy with two comfortable-looking pallets laid out on fresh straw. A lantern hung from the rafters overhead, and Peliik smiled as he turned to leave.

"Rest now," he told them. "Mother would want you to. When you awaken, there will be food, and if you wish, you may bathe in the pool. Hadroz will take you there."

"I'm more curious than tired," Tamsyn said.

"And I wouldn't mind that bath now, rather than later," Sylfaen agreed.

"Mother will answer all your questions when you have rested," Peliik assured her. "I'll send Hadroz to you, and she will bring you clothes to wear, while yours are cleaned." He turned and left them then.

"What do you make of all this?" Sylfaen asked when he had gone.

"I hardly know," Tamsyn admitted. "This is incredible! An entire community, hidden here in the mountains! And to find a dragon here – a _female_ dragon at that! It's…well, it's unbelievable!"

"Are female dragons that rare, then?" the Snow Elf asked. "I'm afraid my experience with them is limited."

"They're practically non-existent!" Tamsyn marveled. "All the dragons Marcus and I have dealt with have been male. I once asked Paarthurnax if there were any females, and he said there used to be, long ago, but dragons are very…territorial, and he believes they died off during the Dragon Wars."

"That's a long time to go celibate," Sylfaen remarked drily.

Tamsyn chuckled. "Dragons are immortal. There's really no need for an immortal race to reproduce itself, but still, you're right. Without females there are no new dragons being born. And with no new ones, the older one eventually fall victim to mortals who view them as threats. Dragons are dying off, slowly but surely." The thought made her sad. For good or for ill, part of the thrill of Skyrim had always been its dragons.

Hadroz arrived shortly after. She was shorter than Tamsyn and motherly plump. Shy at first, she quickly warmed to her charges and in dragon speech encouraged them to change into the soft tunics she had brought for them before leading them down the path to the hot springs to bathe.

Sylfaen immediately pulled off her tunic when they arrived, her pale body the very image of Elven perfection as she slipped into the not-too-hot waters, heaving a sigh of relief and closing her eyes.

Tamsyn hung by the bank.

"Go on," Hadroz told her in Dovahzul. "You can't bathe while you're dressed."

Sylfaen opened her eyes. "Is there a problem?"

"No," Tamsyn gulped. "It's just that—"

Hadroz looked on, puzzled.

"What?" Sylfaen asked. "You're not—" She broke off. "You are, aren't you? You're shy!"

Tamsyn lifted her chin. "I am not!" she said defiantly.

"There's no need to be ashamed of your body," Sylfaen said. "I've seen it, remember?"

"Yes," Tamsyn growled. "Completely unwillingly, but yes."

Sylfaen gave a deep chuckle. "I thought we'd gotten past that. Alright, will it help if I close my eyes?"

" _Dreh hi praag zey wah straag dii zek?"_ Hadroz asked.

" _Geh, lig,"_ Tamsyn replied hurriedly. "Yes, please," she added for Sylfaen's benefit.

For a brief moment, the villager and the Snow Elf shared a smug smile before Hadroz turned her back and Sylfaen closed her eyes.

The tunic flew over Tamsyn's head and she slipped into the waters.

"You're not my type, you know," Sylfaen remarked casually, "so you're quite safe."

"Are you attracted to…females?" Tamsyn couldn't help asking.

"No," the elf woman replied. A pained expression crossed her face. "I was…bonded once. Married, you would call it, but it goes deeper than that. It was a long, long time ago."

"And now you're not?" Tamsyn asked gently.

"No," the Snow Elf said. "I don't want to talk about that, though. Not now." She closed her pale blue eyes and seemed to drift off, though Tamsyn was quite certain she was keenly aware of everything that went on around her.

"So, Arch-Mage," Sylfaen said after a few moments. "Tell me more about this place you know of, where my people yet live."

"I've already told you what I've read," Tamsyn said carefully. "I've never been there." At least, not since coming to Skyrim, she thought privately. "But there's supposed to be a Chantry there."

"A Chantry," Sylfaen said dreamily. "I remember the great Chantries. They were such…peaceful places." She opened her eyes, but they seemed focused on something far in the past. "It was a very…chaotic time, when the Atmorans invaded Tamriel." She spoke slowly, reluctantly, as if the memories were dragged from her. "The humans seemed bound and determined to wipe out every one of us. Some of us sought refuge among our brethren, the Dwemer; some went with the Snow Prince himself to Solstheim. We heard of the Battle of Moesring only much later. Some of my people escaped to the Chantries, and some fled into the hills. A few of us tried to make for the Summerset Isles, to elicit help from the Aldmer, but found ourselves enslaved instead."

Tamsyn didn't comment. It seemed her companion wanted to talk, so she remained silent.

"For a long time we wore the chains of the Aldmer. Those who tried to escape were never killed; they were…punished in other ways. In some twisted way, it was a symbol of status to own a Falmer slave. I spent the entire First Age in chains."

She was silent for a time, then Tamsyn asked softly, "How did you escape?"

Sylfaen gave a mirthless snort. "My owner died during one of the wars of succession that are so frequent in the Isles. For a long time he had enjoyed rank and privilege, but eventually he was taken down by someone with more guile and treachery than himself. In the confusion, I managed to hide in the hills. I took to wearing gloves, a hood and mask at that time so that none would know I was a Snow Elf."

"And eventually you joined the Dominion, and became a Thalmor?"

"Yes," the elf woman replied, her distant gaze troubled. "My people have always been at war, in one form or another. We can never seem to live at peace, as you humans seemed to have managed from time to time. During the Oblivion Crisis, when Mehrunes Dagon attempted to break the barriers between worlds, I saw the Tower of Crystal-Like Law fall, and my heart shattered into as many pieces as that symbolic structure. When the Oblivion Gates were finally closed, the Order of the Thalmor rose to take credit for ending the Crisis. I knew it was a lie, but I went along with it, knowing the greater mobility and access I would have to explore Tamriel, to see if my people still survived some place where I could find them."

"You could have found a place to hide, like the villagers here have done."

Sylfaen shook her head sadly. "I have become too used to creature comforts," she replied. "I would not long survive, grubbing out a simple life in a cave somewhere. And the more that civilization grows, the fewer places there are where I could hide. That is why I am hoping when we finally reach this forgotten Vale of yours, that perhaps I may find others of my kind who have taken refuge there. You'd better be right about that. I can be singularly…unpleasant…when people attempt to take me for a fool."

Tamsyn said nothing. She couldn't reveal what she knew of the Vale without explaining how she had come by such foreknowledge. In addition, she had learned that very often, what she knew about the game would change, based on the free will of the people of Tamriel. They might very well get to the Forgotten Vale and find it not so forgotten after all. Whether it would be occupied by an enclave of Snow Elves or their more degenerated cousins the Falmer was anyone's guess.

They returned to their hut soon after, and were provided with a simple but satisfying meal of roasted goat, vegetables and fruit juice. When they finished, Peliik came and asked them to follow him, as he escorted them back to Golmonah.

The green dragon lay where they had first seen her, but she had made an effort to raise herself more upright. Tamsyn could tell from the pain in the dragon's eyes, that this was difficult for her.

"So," the Earth Mother began, "you have rested and eaten. I hope Peliik has seen to your needs?"

"Yes, Golmonah," Tamsyn answered. "We have been very kindly looked after."

The dragon's mouth lifted at one side in what passed for a smile. "Good," she replied. "So I will not keep you waiting. You wish answers, I'm sure. I am ready for your questions."

"How did you come to be here?" Sylfaen spoke first, before Tamsyn could. "You'll forgive me for being blunt, but you look far too large to have come through the tunnel we came in by."

"Ah," Golmonah said sadly. "That is indeed a long story. You may wish to sit and be comfortable. My people know this tale as they know their own history, but I will indulge."

Sylfaen and Tamsyn looked around and found there were several low wooden benches surrounding the fire in front of the dragon. It appeared to be a place where the Strunmah Jooriin would often sit and listen to the Earth Mother. They seated themselves and waited. Golmonah was silent for several moments before she spoke again.

"Do you know how the dragons came to be?" she asked them.

"Not really, no," Sylfaen admitted. "They've just always seemed to be part of our mythology."

"Myth, yes," Golmonah nodded. "There was a time when my kind crowded the skies of Keizaal. When Alduin lorded over all. Then Alduin was banished and the Akaviri declared war on my kind. But before that time, we were created…spawned, if you will…by Akatosh himself. Alduin, of course, was first, and being the First among us, he took dominion as his birthright. None there were of female dragons, because Akatosh created them in his own image."

"I've…uh…actually met Akatosh," Tamsyn put in tentatively. "He didn't look anything like a dragon."

Golmonah chuckled, while Sylfaen looked at her in awe.

"Then he chose to speak with you in his aspect of Auri-El," Golmonah explained. "But his true countenance, the one known by the dov is as _Bormahu_ – Father – a shining gold dragon; the only one of his kind."

"How is it that you're female, then?" Tamsyn asked. "I thought there was no such thing?" She had read the book, _There Be Dragons_ , by Torhal Bjorik, who had insisted the rumors of dragon eggs were just that – rumors, and that dragons had always been and did not mate.

"Kynareth herself saw the flaw in Akatosh's design," Golmonah replied, unoffended. "Long did she petition Bormahu to change what he had done, but he steadfastly refused. Eventually, however, she wore him down, as the winds eventually wear down the mountains. At length, he told her, 'Summon what dragons will come to you, then. I give you the power to change their nature, if they are willing.' So Kaan made her way to the Monahven, the Throat of the World, and sent her call around Keizaal. For the passage of Nahkorah, the lesser moon, from invisible to full and back to unseen did she wait. In the end, only a hundred or so of the dov heeded her call and agreed to the change. I was one."

"Does this mean there are younger dragons out there? Hatchlings?" Tamsyn asked, incredulous.

" _Nid,"_ Golmonah said sadly. "There are none I know of now. When those of us who accepted Kaan's blessing returned, we faced the treachery of our brothers, who stole our lands and drove us off. Those who sought to…dominate us…either crippled or killed those who did not submit."

"You mean they didn't accept you, just because you had become female?" Sylfaen demanded.

" _Geh,"_ said the emerald dragon sadly. "The nature of a dragon is to dominate. Those who heard Kyne's call were the lesser of our kind, who might have died in fighting with our brothers anyway. We were smaller and weaker. We had hoped our natures would encourage a will to protect in the others, but it did not happen that way. We do not blame Kaan for this. The choice was ours to accept or reject her offer."

"Is that what happened to you?" Tamsyn asked now, noting how stiffly and painfully the dragon held herself. "You were injured?"

"You have surmised correctly, _Tah Meyz Zin,"_ Golmonah nodded. Tamsyn was startled to hear her name spoken as though in Dovahzul. Clearly, Golmonah was trying to wrap her mind around a word that really had no particular meaning. Each of the villagers, she was learning, all had names in the dragon language that basically described what they did for a living, or were a reflection of their personalities. _Tah Meyz Zin_ , loosely translated, meant to bring the pack honor. She wondered obliquely how Sylfaen's name would translate. But she focused her attention as the dragon was speaking again.

"It was during a fight with one of my brothers that I was thrown down upon this mountain. I was already badly injured, but unknown to us both, there existed this very large cavern under the rocks and stones, and it was the force and weight with which I hit the ground that opened it to the skies. I lay here, grievously wounded and near to death. I gave up, and resigned myself to starving to death as I could no longer fly."

"What happened?" Sylfaen asked quietly, caught up in the tale in spite of herself.

"There lived in these hills a primitive group of people, _Zilf Faan_." Tamsyn absently translated the name Golmonah had given her companion: _silver explorer._ It was perhaps more fitting than either of them surmised. "They were not mer, not Akaviri, but they were human. They found me, and I expected nothing but death at their hands, which I welcomed at that point. Instead, they cared for me. They built a shelter to protect me and brought me food they had snared in the hills. Their shamans tried many times to heal me, but while they were able to ease the pain, they could not remove it completely. My wings healed on their own, but did not set properly. I knew I would never fly again. In gratitude for their care and kindness, however, I taught them the language of the dov, and passed along to them the wisdom I had gathered over the ages. They named me _Gol Monah_ , Earth Mother, and since I had no name before, I accepted it from them in gratitude."

"You spoke of a foretelling earlier," Tamsyn said now. "What sort of prophecy?"

"Unclear, as most prophecies are," Golmonah admitted. "Many centuries ago, one of the Strunmah Jooriin was a very old, very wise shaman, who had a vision. She told me that in her dream, Kyne herself came to her and told her that I could be healed when a human and an elf, traveling together, found the cave. She said she was told they would know the pair, because the human would have hair the color of fire, and the elf would have skin like snow."

Sylfaen unconsciously tugged the sleeves of her tunic further down her arms.

"And the villagers have kept that prophecy alive, all this time?" the Snow Elf said skeptically.

"Ask Peliik that question," Golmonah said with some amusement. "He is the Lore Keeper, after all. The villagers here do not forget their past."

"And you believe we can heal you?" the former Thalmor said with a bit of her old asperity.

" _Nid,"_ the old green dragon said, shaking her head. "I only hope you can."

"Could I have a word with you, Tamsyn?" Sylfaen asked slowly. "Privately?"

They moved several paces away, but Tamsyn knew that in a cavern like this, it was very likely the dragon would still be able to hear them.

"This is crazy!" Sylfaen spluttered. "I don't know anything about dragon anatomy. How could she expect us to heal her wings, of all things? A broken leg, perhaps, maybe a cracked rib, but a wing? It's impossible!"

"Maybe not as impossible as you think," Tamsyn said. "I'll grant you, it's a daunting task—"

"Daunting?" Sylfaen echoed, her eyebrows rising along with her voice. "Do you have any idea how to reset a broken bone, especially one that has healed wrong. After all the time that has passed? And when you consider the amount of time it would take to do something on that monumental a scale, well…I don't know about you, but I would prefer to move on as quickly as we can. I'd like to get to this forgotten vale of yours before the next millennium rolls around."

Tamsyn lost her temper. "Now look here," she glared. "These people have been nothing but kind to us. They let us come in out of the cold, gave us a warm meal, a warmer bath, and clean clothes to wear while they wash and dry ours! This is the only thing their matriarch wishes from us in return for that kindness. When people do something nice for you it's considered good manners to return the favor if you can. Or don't they teach you that in Snow Elf school?"

Sylfaen mouthed the words 'Snow Elf school' as she stared in amazement at the Breton Arch-Mage. "You can't seriously mean you're going to try this?"

"Yes, I am," Tamsyn said firmly. "And you're going to quit your bitchin' for once and help me." It wasn't often that Tamsyn used profanity, but in this case she decided to make an exception. She knew she needed Sylfaen's help. A healing of this magnitude would quickly deplete her magicka reserves before she could do much good. She needed to tap into Sylfaen's vast reservoir of arcane energy, and for that she needed her cooperation.

For her part, Sylfaen was beginning to see the Arch-Mage less as some prize to be won among the Thalmor and more as the dynamic person she truly was. She still didn't know very much about the woman, but whether Tamsyn realized it or not, her magical aura radiated when her emotions were high. Right now, the sense of power coming from this small, red-haired girl was overwhelming. Sylfaen had rarely felt such magical energy coming from one person. It was this more than anything else that convinced her there might actually be a chance of success here, and she heard herself saying, "You're right. I'm sorry. Of course I'll help. What do you want me to do?"

* * *

" _What in the world is that song you're humming?"_ Sylfaen asked in her mind.

Tamsyn gave a guilty start. She had almost forgotten the Snow Elf was there. They had been working on the Earth Mother's wings for nearly two hours, with Sylfaen feeding magicka to Tamsyn through the mental link they shared.

" _The finger bone's connected to the…hand bone, the hand bone's connected to the…arm bone. The arm bone's connected to the…shoulder bone, now shake dem skeleton bones!"_ Tamsyn grinned. _"It's a song I learned a long time ago when I was a little girl,"_ she replied.

" _It's annoyingly insidious,"_ Sylvan grimaced.

" _Fine, I'll switch to something else. 'The wheels on the cart go round and round, round and round, round and round—"_

" _Are you nearly done?"_ Sylfaen almost shrieked.

" _No, we're not even close,"_ Tamsyn replied passively, but there was an unmistakable note of amusement in her thoughts. _"There's a lot of old damage here that has to be removed before I can re-set the coracoid."_

" _The what?"_

" _The part of the shoulder bone that connects it to the collarbone,"_ Tamsyn answered. _"This side is worse than the other, which is why I wanted to start with this wing."_ Aloud she said, "If I'm not mistaken, this is the wing you landed on, Golmonah?"

"It is indeed, _Tah Meyz Zin,"_ the old dragon replied. "But already the pain has lessened somewhat. Whatever you are doing, it is helping."

Sylfaen said nothing, but continued to stream her magicka to the Arch-Mage. There was a subtle power underlying the surface healing; a presence in the Breton girl's mind that she kept carefully blocked away from the Snow Elf. Sylfaen couldn't identify the source, but she knew it was there.

It was two more hours before Tamsyn finally called a halt. Both women were exhausted, but Sylfaen knew they weren't done.

"Rest now," Golmonah insisted. "You have done so much already, and I have waited centuries. A little longer will not be a hardship."

Gratefully, the two women retreated to the hut provided for them and threw themselves down on their sleeping furs. Both were asleep before Hadroz came to ask if they needed food or drink. The older woman smiled and carefully placed woolen blankets over them before leaving.

When Tamsyn awoke it was to find Sylfaen still asleep. Unable to help herself, she leaned over and poked the Snow Elf, who jolted awake.

"You sleep pretty soundly for someone who should be aware of their surroundings," she teased.

Sylfaen glared at her for a long moment; slowly, almost unwillingly, the corners of her mouth lifted. "I suppose I deserved that," she allowed. "Have you been to see the dragon yet?"

"No," Tamsyn said, shaking her head. "I just woke up myself. I can't think when the last time was that I slept so well."

"I can," Sylfaen said drily. "It was the night I escaped from your maniacal friend and his lumbering lover."

"Well, before that, then," Tamsyn grinned, refusing to be baited. "Come on. Let's see if there's food to be had somewhere. I'm starving!"

Peliik joined them as they broke their fast on bread and cheese. Goat's milk appeared to be the only beverage besides water. Sylfaen sniffed at it and made a face, pushing her cup to one side. Tamsyn shrugged and drank hers down. It was warm, but not unpleasant. Perhaps she should show them some tips about refrigeration before she left.

"Golmonah has asked to see you before you leave," Peliik said. "She wishes to thank you for all you have done."

"All we've—" Tamsyn broke off. "Peliik, we aren't done yet. And we aren't leaving until we are."

"But, I thought you were not able…that is, Mother said—"

"Peliik," Tamsyn said intensely, "I never do a healing job halfway. I know I can fix Golmonah's wings, given some time, and Sylfaen's cooperation here. I won't be happy until I see her fly again!"

Peliik's face took on a look of abject worship. "You can do that?" he breathed. Then his face fell. "But that would mean…that she would leave us…"

"Let's not put the cart before the horse, shall we?" Sylfaen said, unsure why she felt the need to reassure the man. "There's a good chance we won't be able to – ow! Why did you step on my foot?"

"Because you're being an idiot!" Tamsyn stormed. "I said I would heal Golmonah's wings, and that's what I intend to do!"

"Arch-Mage, be reasonable," Sylfaen insisted. "Those wings have atrophied over millennia! Even if you could manage to put them back the way they were, I doubt the dragon would even remember how to fly."

"Have you forgotten how to breathe?" Tamsyn demanded. At Sylfaen's flustered spluttering, Tamsyn gave a satisfied smile. "I didn't think so. Now let's not have any more negativity, okay? We've got work to do!"

And work it was. Tamsyn kept up a marathon pace of constant healing, mending the bones that had shattered completely, unfusing and realigning those which had healed improperly. Sylfaen grudgingly had to admit she had never seen any healer as powerful and as dedicated as the Arch-Mage. That unknown source of power was there again, hidden just out of her mind's eye, but when she attempted to explore its identity, she was firmly set aside.

" _Concentrate on the job at hand, Sylfaen,"_ Tamsyn told her privately. _"That's none of your business right there."_

" _I will find out,"_ Sylfaen replied sourly.

" _Only if I let you,"_ the Arch-Mage assured her.

They worked steadily for two or three hours, then rested for a short time before continuing. All the while, Golmonah remained encouraging, thankful and patient.

"It feels much stronger," she told the two women after the third rest break. "I almost feel I could furl my wings once more."

"Not yet," Tamsyn said hastily. "But soon, I promise you. You've been such a good patient, but I don't want to see all this work wasted if you try them before they're ready."

"I will listen to the advice of my _lahiik,_ my…healer," the dragon chuckled.

It was another full day of nothing but healing before Tamsyn and Sylfaen, utterly exhausted, finally finished.

"I…can move…again…" Golmonah murmured in wonder. Her pinions shifted forward, as they had not been able to do in ages, and she moved off the bed of straw upon which she lay. In wonder, the Strunmah Jooriin gathered to watch her move around the cavern.

Tamsyn could see now that by dragon standards, Golmonah was rather small, about the size of an African elephant, but longer due to her tail and neck.

"Mother," Peliik said nervously. "Does this mean…you will leave us now?"

In reply, the dragon came to him and nudged him gently. "In your species, all children must grow up and leave their families. That is the way of humans and of mer. The Strunmah Jooriin also allow their children to leave, to find other clans to join, to keep from weakening the clan that remains. In my case, I am too old to leave you forever. But I would like to fly the skies of Keizaal once more. I am, after all, a dragon."

Satisfied with her answer, Peliik gave orders to clear an area large enough to give their Earth Mother room to get aloft.

"We will wait for you outside, Mother!" he called.

"Is this wise?" Sylfaen asked doubtfully. "I mean, we just spent two days healing her. What if something breaks while she's airborne?"

"Nothing's going to break," Tamsyn assured her. "Come on. She's going to kick up some wind in here. We should go outside with the others."

It was a sight none of them would forget. The morning sun was just breaking over the Jeralls to the east behind them as they emerged from the tunnel they had entered three days before. The entire clan had come out to see Golmonah's first flight in living memory, and a great cheer rose up to greet her triumphant roar as she burst from the hole in the side of the mountain and snapped her wings open to catch Kyne's breath.

Tamsyn couldn't speak. Overwhelmed with emotion, she looked over at Sylfaen, to see with surprise the tears running unashamedly down the Snow Elf's face.

"You really did it, Tamsyn!" she breathed, and the Breton girl was mildly astonished to hear her name roll off the elf woman's tongue for the first time.

" _We_ did it!" Tamsyn insisted, slipping her hand around Sylfaen's arm and hugging it.

Golmonah glided in lazy circles around the mountain peak, and it was clear she was not pushing herself too hard. After several minutes, she landed in the clearing. The Strunmah Jooriin crowded around her, touching her reverently as if to reassure themselves she was still their Earth Mother. After several moments, Peliik separated himself and came over to Tamsyn and Sylfaen.

"You are the one," he breathed in awe as the green dragon crooned to her people. "You are _rah mon_."

Tamsyn threw a quick glance at Sylfaen to see if the Snow Elf recognized the draconic words, but her pale face was puzzled.

"What does that mean?" the former Justiciar asked.

"It means 'gods-daughter'," Peliik explained. "The _prok-lahzey_ is the one who was foretold to us, many generations ago." He bowed reverently and left the two women to rejoin the others.

"I'm still not sure I understand what he means," Sylfaen frowned, turning to Tamsyn, who looked as though she wished she was anywhere but there at that moment. "Would you care to enlighten me?"

Seeing no other option, Tamsyn sighed. "Not really, but you're not going to let this go, are you?" she asked.

"Not a chance," the elf woman said, shaking her head.

"Let's head back inside, then," Tamsyn said. "It's cold out here."

Once back in the underground village, in their small hut, Tamsyn told Sylfaen, as briefly as possible and leaving out quite a bit concerning her previous life. Sylfaen's reaction, of course, was predictable.

"What a load of rubbish!" she exclaimed. "You can't possibly expect me to believe you're the daughter of an actual Divine! And Julianos himself, no less!" And yet, the elf woman couldn't deny there had been an underlying source of power during the entire healing process of the last few days.

"Believe what you like," Tamsyn shrugged. "But ask yourself this: how else could I have kept you out of my mind?"

Sylfaen opened her mouth to argue, but shut it again immediately, her face troubled. How, indeed? Several things that had bothered her about the Arch-Mage suddenly became much clearer.

"And this was the secret you have been keeping from me…from the Dominion?" the Snow Elf asked.

"It's part of it," Tamsyn nodded.

Sylfaen pondered the implications of this for several moments. "I hardly know what to think," she said finally. "If what you claim is true, it flies in the face of everything the Dominion and the Thalmor stand for." She stared moodily into the distance.

"Sylfaen," Tamsyn began gently. "Everything the Dominion and the Thalmor stand for is built on lies."

The former Justiciar glared at her, but Tamsyn plunged ahead.

"You already admitted you disagreed with several things the Dominion has purported as truth," she insisted. "You know they lied about ending the Oblivion crisis; you know they want to keep the Empire weak; you know they want to continue the Civil War in Skyrim because it wastes Imperial resources. You know darn well they're stealing away every powerful magical artifact they can get their hands on to keep it out of the hands of common mages. They've stolen away and hidden the old magics that used to exist because they don't want us to have them."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Sylfaen insisted, turning her back.

"Don't I? Your entire organization is predicated on the assumption that the Altmer weren't just _created_ by the gods, that they're _descended_ from them," Tamsyn pressed. "And they feel this gives them the authority to wipe out any race that isn't Altmer. Take it from someone who knows about being descended from a god: the Altmer are _not_ the master race!"

"I'm not listening to you!" the Snow Elf cried, covering her delicately tapered ears and squeezing her eyes shut.

"Sylfaen, you're not an Altmer!" Tamsyn asserted. "You're a Snow Elf! You _know_ this. You wore the robes and the gloves and the mask so they would never find out! You hid your identity from everyone you worked with. You've denied your true nature for so long you think you're one of them, but deep down you knew you could never let them see the truth!"

" _Nooo,"_ the elf woman moaned. "Stop it!"

"You've tricked yourself into believing that everything they stand for is right and just," Tamsyn went on relentlessly, "and that the distant past never happened. What do you think your colleagues would do if they knew you were one of a lost race of elves? If they didn't kill you outright they would probably enslave you again, as you once were—"

" _LEAVE ME ALONE!"_

The keening wail was accompanied by a blast of psychic force so strong it stunned Tamsyn momentarily. But in the instant the mental tsunami hit her Tamsyn knew she had broken the barriers that the Snow Elf had built up so carefully around her mind. Wave after wave of memories flooded Tamsyn's mind, and the Arch-Mage knew there was a psychic connection neither could break. It was like grasping a live electrical wire and having all the muscles seize up, unable to let go. A mere mortal would have been burned out by the overwhelming tide of thoughts, feelings, emotions and memories that flooded forth, but as Tamsyn had admitted to a certain red dragon once before, she was no mere mortal.

It may have lasted only seconds, or minutes. Tamsyn wasn't sure which, but she became aware that Sylfaen was huddled on the floor of their wickiup, sobbing out her soul. Immediately, Tamsyn fell to her knees next to the bereft elf, pulling her closer and holding her, murmuring sounds of comfort. They remained that way for a long time, until Sylfaen finally seemed to have exhausted herself. Gradually, she pulled away from Tamsyn and pushed her silver-white hair away from her face.

"It's all true, isn't it?" she whispered. "You really _are_ the daughter of Julianos. I felt him…for a brief moment there in your mind. You've seen him recently."

"It's been almost two years," Tamsyn said sadly. "But yes, it's true."

"How is that even possible?"

"I can't really explain it," Tamsyn said. "Not because I don't want to, but because it sounds so unbelievable, even to me."

Sylfaen sighed. "In truth, I doubt I'm in the right frame of mind to accept it. My world as I knew it has been completely shattered." Her face crumpled. "I have never felt so utterly…alone, and lost," she murmured dejectedly.

"You're not alone," Tamsyn smiled. "I'm here with you. Like it or not, you're a survivor. I doubt you could have made it this far if you didn't love life enough to fight to stay in it."

Sylfaen gave a faint snort. "You've been in my head all of two minutes and you know that much about me already. I truly _am_ lost!" But she smiled faintly as she said it. "So what happens now? I can't… _won't_ go back to the Dominion. The things I've done…" She broke off, shuddering. "I won't go back to that. I became what I feared and loathed the most, and that is a horrible realization to accept."

"All of Tamriel is open to you," Tamsyn suggested. "You can go anywhere you want."

"No, actually," Sylfaen said, getting to her feet. "I can't. You see, the Dominion does not easily let their operatives go. We know too much. They will send other Justiciars after me when they realize my body is not at Vilverin and I have not reported in. Most certainly Emissary Gwaiden will begin searching for me. He is a cruel, sadistic mer," she added, for Tamsyn's benefit. "He is relentless, and he has spies everywhere. If I put on my mask again he will find me; if I don't…well, I don't exactly blend in with the crowd. The Altmer hold a long-standing hatred of the Falmer, and took great delight in our…degradation. I would soon be captured again, or killed."

"From what I've learned," Tamsyn said. "The Altmer hate anyone that isn't an Altmer."

"You're not wrong," Sylfaen nodded. "This…purge of other races is just the beginning. Eventually, they will turn on the other mer as well, who will be too subjugated by then to resist."

"I've…read about these sorts of things happening before," Tamsyn acknowledged. "So what we need to do, then, is get you some place where you can live your life peacefully and quietly, where the Dominion will never find you."

"Have you been listening?" Sylfaen arched an eyebrow. "I just said they have spies everywhere, and I am unfortunately very much an oddity."

"Some make-up or Illusion magic will take care of your physical appearance," Tamsyn said easily. "That's not what concerns me. What does is _getting_ you to a safe place."

Sylfaen looked at her companion. "Why does it matter to you?" she asked helplessly. "I tried to kill you not long ago. I assaulted your mind, I violated your psyche. I tried to break you."

"But you didn't," Tamsyn shrugged. "And I know now that you're profoundly sorry for that. It's past history. From this point on, we start fresh; if not as friends, then at least as traveling companions." She held out her hand for the elf woman to shake.

Sylfaen stared at the small hand for a long moment, and slowly looked down into the Breton girl's face. So young she was, and yet, there had been the hint of a much older wisdom in the mind she had tried to violate. The green eyes that gazed confidently back into hers waited expectantly with guarded trust, and Sylfaen knew if she took the proffered hand, her life would never be as it was. That could only be a good thing.

Overcome with shame and remorse, she whispered. "How can you trust me after what I've done to you?"

Tamsyn smiled, and it was like the sun coming out in the gloom of the Earth Mother's cavern. "Because I know things you don't," the Arch-Mage said cheekily. In spite of herself, Sylfaen felt a bubble of amusement percolate up through her chest. It escaped before she could stop it, and as she laughed, she realized how good it felt to smile honestly, in genuine amusement and appreciation of a well-played joke. She took Tamsyn's hand in one of hers and covered them both with the other.

"Very well," she smiled. "Traveling companions it is, then. So where are we traveling, Companion? Since you 'know things I don't,' is there any place in Tamriel I could go where the Dominion will never find me?"

Tamsyn grinned openly. "Funny you should ask that."

* * *

"Are you sure you are ready for a trip of this duration, Mother?" Peliik asked.

" _Geh, Peliik,"_ the ancient green dragon replied. "I owe much to the _prok-lahzey_ and the _od fahliil._ I will take them to the place they seek and then return. I will not be gone many days."

"As you wish, Mother," Peliik replied, bowing, "but it will be strange for us here while you are gone."

"All children must learn to live on their own, without their parent," Golmonah said fondly. "Perhaps I should have pushed you out of the nest sooner?" Her eyes narrowed in mirth as she chuckled.

"We are grateful you did not," her Scribe replied fondly. "Return to us soon. May Kyne watch over you all."

This last was said to Tamsyn and Sylfaen who had just arrived with their backpacks filled with supplies by the Strunmah Jooriin. Tamsyn was once more wearing her Arch-Mage robes under a fur parka, and Sylfaen was wearing a long leather coat over comfortable trousers and a thick woolen shirt. A heavy fur cap was pulled close over her head.

They were outside, and Golmonah lowered her neck to allow the two women to climb up and settle themselves between her shoulders.

"We aren't going to be too heavy for you, are we, Golmonah?" Tamsyn asked, concerned.

" _Nid, Tah Meyz Zin,"_ the dragon replied. "You have done your work well, the two of you. I feel stronger than I have in an age."

"Are you certain we should be doing this at all?" Sylfaen gulped. "What if we fall off?"

"Don't fall off," Tamsyn said, shrugging. She had flown on a dragon's back before, after all. It was nothing new to her. "If it makes you feel better, just hold onto my waist. Urp!" she squeaked, as Sylfaen's arms cinched around her. "Not quite so tight, please! I'd like to breathe!"

"Good-bye for now, my people!" Golmonah called to her gathered throng. The Strunmah Jooriin called out tearful good-byes and many well-wishes for a safe journey as the dragon launched herself into the air. She circled the peak of the mountain a few times to grab the thermals and gain altitude before heading in a northerly direction towards Skyrim.

"Where are we going, _Tah Meyz Zin?"_ she called back.

"To Whiterun first," Tamsyn said, "and then to a place called the Forgotten Vale. Just head north. I'll guide you." With Golmonah agreeing to take both her and Sylfaen directly to the Forgotten Vale, they could avoid Darkfall Cave completely and Tamsyn could be back home by the following day. There was only one thing that worried her now; Sylfaen's reaction when they reached the Vale. How would the former Justiciar react upon learning how few Snow Elves still lived? Her newly-formed truce with the woman was tenuous at best. Such a deception might destroy any chance of trust she might have with her.

Unsure what to say, or how to broach the subject, she remained silent as they winged their way over the Jeralls, glided over Falkreath and finally circled Whiterun, looking for a place to land.

"I am unsure of the _joore_ on the walls of the city," Golmonah said nervously. "They do not seem to realize I mean them no harm."

"Set us down there, by that barn across the road from the stables," Tamsyn told her. "I'll speak to the guards so they'll know to leave you alone. I just want to let my family know I'm safe, pick up a few supplies I have, and then we'll be on our way."

"I will wait here for you," the emerald dragon replied. _"Drem, key jul,"_ she said to Bjorlam, who was wrestling Gerduin into obedience. "I will not hurt you."

"How do I know that?" the carriage driver demanded, still attempting to soothe the panicking horse from his seat.

The dragon blinked in surprise. "Because I have said it," she replied. "I do not speak untruths."

Bjorlam wisely said nothing, and soon, as Gerduin realized the dragon was merely sitting there, she settled down. But her eyes still rolled wildly.

Sylfaen pulled her cowl down closer over her face and shoved her hands up her sleeves again. She followed Tamsyn into the city, and was pleased to see her head toward a house not far from the main gate, next to the smithy.

"Strange," Tamsyn said. "Blaise should be at the forge, with Adrianne. Hmph. They must be inside. I'll stop in before we head out again."

"You have four children in this small house?" Sylfaen murmured, amazed. "Where do you put everyone?"

Tamsyn chuckled. "Yeah, it gets pretty cozy sometimes. Sofie should be up at the alchemist's right now. She's apprenticed there. Blaise works at the forge next door."

"And your other two?"

"Somewhere around town if they aren't home," Tamsyn said. "Alesan has been spending a lot of time at Jorrvaskr, the Companions' mead hall – oh, I'm sorry. That was very thoughtless of me!" She remembered too late that Sylfaen and her entire race had suffered irrevocably from the actions of the Companions original members.

"It's alright," Sylfaen replied. "Those who are Companions now aren't the ones who did the deeds then. But I still have no wish to meet them."

"Understood," Tamsyn nodded. "Come on, let's head inside."

She opened the door and called out, "Marcus, my love! I'm home!"

"Mama!" Lucia shrieked, leaping down the stairs. A large, wolfhound-like dog was at her heels. Lydia came up from downstairs.

"Lady Tamsyn!" the Nord woman smiled. "Thank the Divines you're alright! When we heard what had happened from Cicero and Argis…"

"Are they here?"

"No, my Lady," Lydia answered. "They came by yesterday afternoon to drop off messages, but left immediately to go up to Winterhold, per your instructions, they said. They wouldn't tell me why."

"I'll explain everything later, Lydia. Yes, Lucia, you may have a hug!" Tamsyn paused to give the girl a squeeze. "Are you growing again? My goodness, we'll have to let out your hems again."

"You can't, Mama," the child replied. "They're already all the way down!"

"And we have a dog, too, I see?"

" _Pleased ta meetcha, Lady Tamsyn,"_ the dog said. _"Lucia here has told me all about you. I'm—"_

"Oh, no!" Tamsyn exclaimed in horror. "You're not _Barbas,_ are you?"

" _Sheesh,"_ the dog complained. _"Woid gets around, I see. I hope it ain't gonna be a problem. Y'see your husband helped me out with Clavicus Vile—"_

"And I'll bet he got an ugly mask in return," Tamsyn scowled. "But how is it that _you're_ here, Barbas? I thought you'd be back with Vile."

" _Da bastard wanted your hubby t' kill me!"_ Barbas barked indignantly. _"But Marcus is a good man, and he wouldn't do it. Furdermore, he and his little vampire friend, Serana, helped me realize—"_

" _SERANA?"_

Tamsyn's face went red and her eyes flashed.

"Uh oh," Lucia whispered. "Mama's mad now. We'd better go outside and play, Barbas."

" _Sounds good t' me, kid. She ain't gonna let me finish a sentence anyway."_

The pair scooted quickly outside and left a very confused Snow Elf in the company of a very nervous Nord woman facing a very irate Breton Arch-Mage.

"Lydia," Tamsyn said slowly and evenly. "Will you please tell me just _what in Oblivion has been going on around here?"_ Her voice rose in volume as she reached the end of her question.

It took longer than expected, with many interruptions by Tamsyn and explanations to Sylfaen, but Lydia finally recounted everything.

"I'm gone for just a few weeks—" Tamsyn spluttered.

"To be fair, Tamsyn, it doesn't sound like very much of this was your husband's fault," Sylfaen soothed.

"Where is he now, Lydia?" the Arch-Mage demanded.

"He stopped by here with that vampire girl, Serana, the day before yesterday," Lydia replied. "We went out to find Lucia's farm, as I've already told you. Then Thane Marcus and Serana picked up some supplies and left, so they missed Cicero and Argis. He said they had to go to a place in the Reach."

"Darkfall Cave."

"Yes!" Lydia blinked. "How did you—oh, never mind. I keep forgetting you're a Seer."

"So, do we go to the Forgotten Vale," Sylfaen wondered, "or to this Darkfall Cave?"

"Darkfall Cave leads eventually to the Forgotten Vale," Tamsyn groused. "I know exactly what Marcus has been up to since I've been gone, and what he's after now: Auriel's Bow."

Sylfaen gasped. "Auriel's Bow? The Bow of the god himself? How can it be that it still exists?"

"It's an artifact," Tamsyn explained shortly. "Those sorts of things can never really be destroyed. We need to hurry, then. Marcus has already gotten a head start on us, and if I know him, he had Odahviing take him there."

"He did, my Lady," Lydia confirmed. "They took off on that huge red dragon of his and headed northwest. I don't know how you'll catch him."

Sylfaen gave a smug smile. "As it happens," she said pertly, "we have a dragon, too."

In a very short time, Tamsyn and Sylfaen were airborne once more. Tamsyn had hurried to catch up to her three remaining children to say goodbye. She wasn't happy to learn about Adrianne's injuries, or Blaise's transfer to Riften, but there was nothing she could do about it right now. She apologized to Barbas for her temper and assured him he was welcome in their home, especially after learning what he had done for Lucia and Lydia at Lucia's farm.

Now, hundreds of feet in the air over Whiterun Hold, she turned over in her mind once more everything Lydia had told her about the vampire menace and Marcus' response to it. Part of her was irritated beyond belief; what had he been thinking, taking the Beast Blood and becoming a werewolf? Even if he thought it was to save Alesan's life, why hadn't he taken a cure? Alesan had confided that much to her. But another part of her was bursting with pride that he had come this far through an incredibly dangerous, difficult ordeal and had still somehow managed to stay on track.

It meant, however, that there was still the worst to come, and a final confrontation that she might not be able to participate in, depending on how her husband handled things. Still, this was Marcus she was thinking about, and he very often had a unique way of turning things upside down.

In addition, she still hadn't told Sylfaen the truth about the Forgotten Vale. Arch-Mage and Master Healer she might be, she still couldn't find the right words to say, "Oh, by the way, that enclave at the Forgotten Vale? It's really only two Snow Elves, and one's a vampire. Sorry about that." She dreaded the look of hurt and betrayal she would see in Sylfaen's eyes, especially if she merely left the woman there. But she could see no easy solution.

She worried about that for the next several hours as emerald wings flew them closer to their destination. But as they approached the Druadach Mountains, fierce storms, worse than any she'd ever seen, swept over the land, forcing Golmonah to set them down on the lee side of the spiny peaks.

"I can go no further," the green dragon gasped. "The winds are too strong for me to overcome. I am not yet fully recovered."

"You've done marvelously well, just bringing us this far," Tamsyn praised her. "Thank you so much!"

"Indeed," Sylfaen added. "I am grateful we didn't have to walk all that way." Terrified of the idea of flight at first, she had soon come to enjoy it, seeing Tamriel in a way she never had before. There were no political boundaries from up there; no borders, no separations. It was all one land, large enough for any and all who could wrest a living from it. She felt the Thalmor she had been finally slip away. She rejected the Justiciar she had worked so hard to become. She was merely Sylfaen Telperion, Snow Elf mage now. It felt…liberating.

Golmonah wished them good luck on the final leg of their journey, teaching both women a spell that would summon her if they needed her.

"It is not like a _thu'um",_ she told them. "A Shout commands; this spell requests. I do not believe it will work on other dragons, if you know their names, but I will hear it from wherever I am, and I will come as soon as I can." Then she dragged herself into the stormy skies and the two women found themselves standing at the entrance of Darkfall Cave.

"Now what?" Sylfaen asked. They were alone in the Reach, in the middle of a driving thunderstorm that threatened to drown them if they didn't find cover. Of course, the only obvious choice was before them.

"Now," Tamsyn sighed, hating this part, "we go in."

* * *

 _[Author's Note: Next up we find out a bit more about what happened at Lucia's farm. And Marcus and Serana head into Darkfall Cave to find Auriel's Bow, and discover more than they bargained for.]_

NOTES ON DRAGON SPEECH

 _[The grammar may not be perfect, but I read at that dragons do not have a past or future tense. This makes sense, if you think about it, as they are so closely tied to the stream of time, all events take place in the 'now' for them. For that reason, the Strunmah Jooriin would have learned to speak as dragons do. Only those who venture outside their village would have learned the common language, like Peliik or Ziiven.]_

 _Fos fen mu dreh voth niin? -_ What should we do with them?

 _Nust los zuruniik. Nust los ni valokein het. -_ They are strangers. They are not welcome here.

 _Dii faan los Tamsyn. Daar los dii zeymahzin Sylfaen. Wo los hin kinbok?_ \- My name is Tamsyn. This is my companion Sylfaen. Who is your leader?

 _Fos dreh hi dreh, Peliik?_ \- What do you do, Peliik?

 _Nust fen koraav Golmonah, Ziiven. Rek komaan waan nust los gein. -_ They will see Earth Mother. She decides if they are the ones.

 _Wo los daar zuruniik, Peliik? Druv lost hi drun niin wah zey?_ \- Who are these strangers, Peliik? Why have you brought them to me?

 _Mu rund niin lov havaat, Golmonah. Mu lor nust uld kos gein. -_ We found them near the entrance, Earth Mother. We thought they might be the ones.

 _Vrah? Drun niin strin. -_ Indeed? Bring them closer.

 _mal gein -_ little one

 _Dreh hi praag zey wah straag dii zek? –_ Do you need me to turn my back?

 _Strunmah Jooriin –_ Mountain People

 _prok-lahzey_ – Arch-Mage

 _od fahliil_ – Snow Elf

 _Drem, key jul –_ Peace, horse-man

NAMES

 _Peliik –_ Scribe

 _Ziiven –_ Spirit Wind

 _Golmonah –_ Earth Mother

 _Hadroz –_ Weaver


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

 _[I apologize for the long delay in updating this story. I recently became employed again after being unemployed for over six months, and I have a schedule that's all over the place. I will update this as I can, all things considered. Thanks for sticking with me.]_

* * *

Marcus led his small group down the road that led to the Western Watchtower. Lucia was right behind him, staying close to her father, with her older brother Alesan right behind her and Lydia watchfully bringing up the rear. Alesan was wearing a newer set of leather armor; the amount of growing he'd done as a werewolf precluded his ability to squeeze into his Blades' armor any longer.

Lydia had slipped quickly into a suit of Orcish armor Tamsyn had found in a barrow and had held onto. Enchantments that boosted the wearer's ability to fight well with one-handed swords lay upon it, and Tamsyn knew Lydia preferred that fighting style.

Lucia was not wearing armor of any kind, and this worried Marcus. He had a private word with Barbas, however before they set out.

"Stick close to Lucia, would you please?" he asked the Daedric mutt. "I wouldn't have brought her along, but she's the only one who can tell me if the place we've found is her old farm. I'm concerned because this is farther out from the city than we've been on this hunt."

" _Hey, don't worry,"_ Barbas assured him. _"I'm getting' pretty fond of da kid myself. I'll look aftah her."_

They walked for at least an hour before they reached the Watchtower, where Marcus had fought his first dragon, Mirmulnir, nearly three years before. So much had happened since then, it all seemed surreal. He pointed out to Alesan where the dragon had first been spotted, coming out of the mountains to the south, and showed both his children the spot where he had struck the final blow, killing Mirmulnir and taking his soul.

"And that's when you knew you were Dragonborn, Dad?" Alesan asked, eyes shining.

"Yes," Marcus confirmed. "But your mother knew I was even before I did."

"That's because she's a Seer," Lucia pointed out, her voice just short of hero-worship.

While the two children chattered like magpies, Lydia hung back and asked her Thane, "What will you do if Lucia's aunt and uncle refuse to leave?"

"I'll get an injunction against them from Balgruuf," Marcus said. "Hopefully it won't be too difficult to prove that Lucia is the rightful owner of the land. I'll let the law handle it."

"Most people would take it out of their hides," his Housecarl remarked.

"I'm not most people," Marcus reminded her. "There's no point in driving them off, since we aren't living there, but Lucia deserves a tithe for allowing them to remain in residence all this time. They either pay the tithe, or we find new tenants, simple as that. I doubt they'll argue with the Whiterun guards."

"You surprise me, Thane," Lydia said. "When you first learned about it, you were ready to go out and kill somebody for driving a child off her own land."

"I've had time to think," Marcus admitted. "Let's just wait and see what we learn. We might not have to flex our muscles."

"I'll be sorely disappointed if we don't, Thane," Lydia said blandly.

They continued west along the road, seeing deer and rabbits bounding away into tundra. Butterflies flit from lavender to tundra cotton to mountain flowers and a warm breeze blew in from the south, despite the snow-capped Jeralls reaching into the sky.

Marcus and Lydia stayed alert to trouble, and on a couple of occasions shot down wolves with their bows before the predators could get too close. Lucia was getting tired, however, and already whining about her feet hurting.

"But you walked all the way to Whiterun, didn't you?" Alesan asked her.

"I was a lot younger then," the girl sniffed. "And I think it took me more than a day to get there. I really don't remember a lot about it."

"We're not far from Fort Greymoor, from the looks of it," Lydia commented, pointing. Sure enough, though it was still several miles away, they could see the large, gray stone fortification sitting on a rise in the distance, the setting sun lengthening the shadows of the massive structure.

Lucia stopped dead in the road, staring.

"I remember the castle," she whispered.

"You mean the fort, _chica?"_ Marcus asked gently, crouching down next to her.

"Mama…" Lucia said in a low voice, eyes brimming. "My real Mama…she said it was a castle….she said a fairy princess lived there."

Lydia exchanged a look with her Thane. "I don't think a fairy princess lives there," the Housecarl said carefully.

"I know," the Imperial girl said brusquely, brushing a hand over her eyes. "It was just a silly story."

"I don't think it was silly, Lu," Alesan said quietly, slipping his hand into hers. "I think it's fun to pretend things about places we haven't been to. I like to make up stories about people I don't know and things I've only heard about."

"Really?" the child asked, gazing adoringly at her big brother, and Marcus could have hugged the boy right then and there.

"Sure," Alesan grinned. "I used to pretend, when I lived in Dawnstar, that some of the ships that came in were pirate ships. Or that one of the miners would dig too deep and uncover a Dwemer city filled with treasure. I used to pretend I had wings on my feet that would help me run faster, too."

Lucia laughed in spite of herself. "Wings on your feet? How would you put your boots on?"

"Silly," the boy mock-scowled. "They came with the boots!" But he was grinning, proud he'd made his sister smile again.

"Come on," Marcus said gently, getting to his feet. "If you remember the fort, then your farm must be around here somewhere."

They continued down the road, and Lucia began pulling ahead as little things began to trigger memories in her young mind.

"There's the funny-looking rock where the peddlers would stop to sell their wares," she cried. "And there's the crooked tree I could see from the front door!" She ran ahead as Marcus and the others hurried to catch up. The Dragonborn was getting worried. The only thing he could see was a broken-down building set back from the road.

Lucia noticed it, too, and she slowed to a walk.

"That's where it was," she said, puzzled. "I'm almost positive. I remember the crossroad, and the castle – I mean, the fort over there. But where's the barn? Where's the house? Where are my aunt and uncle?"

She ran ahead of the others.

"Lucia!" Marcus called after her. "Wait!" He took off at a dead run, quickly catching up to the child as she reached the rotted timbers of what had once been a fence surrounding a yard.

"I love it when dinner walks right into my arms!" a voice called out from the ruined house.

Lucia shrieked as a child who appeared to be her age, with red glowing eyes, stepped into the doorway.

"Get back to the road!" Marcus yelled, giving her a shove, but he could see it was already too late.

Shouts from behind him, and Barbas' barking, let him know there was trouble there as well.

"Never mind, Lucia," he told her. "Stay behind me!" He drew his swords and Shouted, _"YOL TOOR SHUL!"_ spewing a gout of flame towards the vampire, who screeched as the conflagration hit her. She immediately extended her hand and began draining the life from Marcus. Though she appeared to be a child, he could feel how powerful she was as a wave of faintness hit him. As a werewolf, he knew he couldn't be turned, but having Lucia here compounded the issue. _She_ could be turned, if the child vampire succeeded in landing an attack.

 _A child vampire?_ his mind reeled. What kind of abomination was this?

A deep, guttural growling came from behind him, but Marcus couldn't spare a glance to see what was going on.

"Death hounds, Papa!" Lucia cried. "There's two death hounds attacking Als and Lydia!"

 _Dammit!_ he swore softly to himself. He couldn't call Odahviing to help because it was too soon to Shout again, and he couldn't take the time to go wolf – it would leave Lucia vulnerable for the few moments it would take.

" _Don't worry, Dragonborn,"_ Barbas called out. _"I got dis!"_

A yelping whine that didn't come from Barbas came from somewhere behind him.

" _Hah!"_ Barbas barked happily. _"I've fought tougher mutts dan you, ya big lug! C'mere and lemme bite ya again!"_

Feeling a bit more hopeful, Marcus concentrated on the vampire in front of him.

"So what happened to the people who lived here?" he demanded of her.

"You mean the old man and woman?" the child vampire gloated. "They were…delicious. It was fun for a while, keeping them enthralled so I had a steady supply of blood. They seemed to think I was some relative of theirs, and I let them believe it. But eventually they outlived their usefulness, and the woman was a complete pain in the ass. She never stopped whining and complaining…at least, not until I shut her up for good. The old man got scared after that. Promised me all the gold he had hidden under the floorboards if I would just let him leave. Ha! As if I cared about gold!"

Marcus felt a knot tighten somewhere in his gut. Lucia's aunt and uncle might not have treated his daughter fairly, but no one deserved to die like that. The tightness in his throat had eased, and he knew he could Shout again.

"It's the last life you'll ever take, blood-sucker," he growled. _"FUS RO DAH!"_

The percussion from his Shout flung the vampire head over heels backwards, smashing her against the far wall of the house and propelling her through the broken boards. Another yelp behind him told him one of the Death Hounds had met its end. Marcus ran into the house, pursuing the vampire, who was now outside the building and attempting to get to her feet.

" _PAPA!"_

 _Lucia!_ In his haste, Marcus had momentarily forgotten about his daughter, assuming she was sticking close to him. Now he saw she had remained in the yard, and a Death Hound – the second and last one – was closing in on her. Lydia and Alesan were too far away to reach the child in time. He quickly retraced his steps outside, but Barbas was there first.

" _Not my mistress, you don't!"_ the Daedric dog howled, tearing into the Death Hound relentlessly. Teeth snapped and claws raked out on both sides as the two unholy hounds fought for supremacy. Marcus rushed to Lucia's side and hugged his daughter close, pulling her away from the fight. He would have assisted Barbas, but the two canines were so closely locked together, each scrabbling to grasp the throat of the other, that it would have been too risky to interfere. The dogs tumbled together and flew apart before launching into each other again and again, and Marcus was actually afraid Barbas might get hurt.

Eventually, the Daedric dog found the throat of the Death Hound and gripped so tightly that Marcus could hear the larynx being crushed. The Hound gave a keening whine before going limp, falling at the feet of Barbas, who seemed no worse for wear.

"Barbas!" Lucia cried happily, running to hug him. "Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

" _He'd have t' be some kinda mutt to hoit me, kid,"_ Barbas barked happily. _"He nevah laid a claw on me!"_

This was not strictly true, as Marcus had seen several hits land on Barbas, but he wisely said nothing.

"They were both tough dogs," Alesan admitted. "I was afraid we weren't going to be able to stop them. But Barbas jumped at the other one just before it leaped on Lydia."

"You had my back out there, Barbas," Lydia said solemnly. "I'm grateful. Thank you."

" _Hey, no problem, sweetness,"_ the Daedric dog replied, tongue lolling out. _"I'm getting' kinda fond of you, too. Just trying t' earn my place in da family."_

"I'd say you've done that," she nodded. "My Thane, what about the vampire?"

 _Shit._ Marcus muttered something unintelligible under his breath. "Kids, stay here with Lydia and Barbas. I'll be right back."

As he expected, the vampire had long since taken advantage of the distraction and had vacated the premises. Where had she come from? How long had she been a vampire? He searched the remains of the house to see if there were any signs of Lucia's aunt and uncle, but there were none. He did find a locked chest under some broken floorboards and managed to get it open. It was filled with what must have been the life-savings of Lucia's relatives. It was hers now. He carefully extracted the chest and brought it outside.

"She killed my aunt and uncle, didn't she, Papa?" Lucia asked him somberly when he returned.

"I'm afraid so, _chica,"_ he told her. "They left this behind, though. It belongs to you now." He opened it again to show her the contents.

"Wow, Lu!" Alesan said, impressed. "You're rich now! What are you gonna do with all that gold?"

"I'll have to think about it," Lucia said seriously. "Papa, is there enough here to rebuild my farm?"

Marcus considered this carefully. From his estimate of the contents of the chest, there wouldn't be enough to build a house much larger than the original. It would be an adequate farmstead, but not elaborate.

"We'll have to look into that, sweetie," he said. "This is your land, not mine. I won't be moving the family out here. You can probably re-build the house and barn, but you'll need to find someone who will live out here and pay rent to you until you decide if you want to live here yourself or not."

Lucia nodded. "I don't think I'll be living here," she said slowly, "at least, not for a long time. I want to live in Solitude, so I can be close to the Bard's College. Maybe renting the farm out is the best idea. Will you help me with that, Papa? Where would I find someone to live here?"

They talked about it all the way back to Whiterun. They headed to Dragonsreach first, so that Marcus could set the wheels in motion to confirm Lucia's ownership of the farmstead, before they returned home. By now it was very late, and Marcus insisted Alesan and Lucia get to bed. The thought of the child vampire still bothered him, however, and he asked Serana about it when she finally emerged from the basement upon waking.

"I've never actually heard of one," Serana admitted, "though that doesn't mean it couldn't happen. The vampirism disease, _sanguinare vampiris,_ can affect anyone who is bitten or scratched by a vampire, either a Volkihar like myself, or a feral one, such as the child you saw earlier tonight. If she was turned while still a child, she would remain that way in form, no matter how old she actually is. She might be several hundred years old."

"And has somehow managed to survive all this time as a vampire?" Marcus asked, quirking an eyebrow. "That seems pretty unlikely."

"Not really, when you think about it," Serana said, shaking her head. "Having the appearance of a child would definitely make people underestimate how powerful she is. They certainly wouldn't suspect her of any foul intent until it was too late."

"Lucia knew she was a threat right away," Marcus pointed out.

"Lucia's not much more than a child herself," Serana explained, "but even she knows that children don't normally go around with glowing red eyes. She's also your daughter, or at least, she's been living with you for a few years now. She's come to accept that things are never what they seem to be at face value."

"True," Marcus conceded, though he was still troubled. In his mind, Serana herself wasn't much more than a teen-ager. "So, are you ready to leave in the morning?"

"You don't want to stick around for a few days?" Serana asked, surprised. Marcus shook his head.

"No," he answered. "I feel like time is slipping away too quickly. The fact that your father had people watching the Ancestor Glade worries me. I think we need to find Auriel's Bow quickly, before your father somehow figures out where it is."

"I don't see how he could, without the Elder Scrolls," Serana shrugged. "But if you want to leave, I'm ready to go."

"Have you eaten?"

"Not yet," the vampire girl admitted. "I thought I'd check out a place Lydia mentioned to me last time; Halted Stream Camp. She said it was a mine that's a haven for poachers and bandits."

"Well, be careful," Marcus cautioned her. "I'm going to grab a few hours of sleep myself. We can leave when you get back."

"You should know me well enough by now to know I'm always careful," Serana grinned.

"I can't help it," he shot back, smiling himself. "It's the father in me. I feel very protective towards people I care about. I'll see you in a few hours. Take care."

He turned and headed up the stairs, then, completely missing the look of forlorn longing that crossed the vampire girl's face.

* * *

Odahviing had taken them as close to Darkfall Cave as he could manage, and Marcus and Serana dismounted, shouldering their packs and hiking the rest of the way through the pines up the piedmont to the cave itself.

The narrow tunnel led for a short way, twisting and turning, but always descending. It was completely black inside, and Marcus was forced to light a torch he'd found on the ground just inside the entrance to be able to see. The smell of frostbite spiders was prevalent, but bearable, and from the bones that littered the floor of the tunnel, he could see that more than spiders called this place home.

"I don't know about you," Serana said in a low voice, "but I've been in enough caves to last me a lifetime. Let's find Auriel's Bow and get out of here!"

"I'm not seeing any place yet where it could be hiding," Marcus replied, also in a low voice. "I think there may be a passage or an offshoot cave behind some of the webbing over there. We should look. We can't afford to walk right past it."

The torch effectively burned away the webs, but also alerted the gigantic spider behind it. Marcus had seen some rather huge frostbite spiders in his time in Skyrim, but this one was the biggest yet. The spider's first reaction was to spit its venom at them. Serana dodged out of the way, but it caught Marcus full frontal.

"Gah!" he cried. "That's it, Shelob! You're going down! _YOL TOOR SHUL!"_

A high-pitched keen came from the spider as the flames hit, and it attempted to retreat further back into its cave, but there was no place left for it to go. Marcus advanced into the narrow side tunnel alternately slashing with Alduin's Bane or thrusting the torch forward. Eventually, the spider shuddered and lay still, its beady black eyes still glaring sightlessly at the Dragonborn.

"Gods, I hate those things!" Marcus exploded.

"Why did you call it 'Shelob'?" Serana asked, mildly amused.

"It was the name of a spider I read about in a book, long ago," Marcus explained. "It was a big, damn spider."

"I see," Serana murmured, realizing she would get no further explanations. "Hey, is that a chest over there?"

Marcus turned and saw a large trunk partly hidden by the spider's body. "Yeah, it is!" he grinned. "Hey, maybe the Bow is in there!"

But the unlocked chest only contained some gems and gold, which Marcus pocketed, as well as a lightweight glass sword that seemed to have an enchantment on it. He had no idea what the nature of the magic might be, though he knew Tamsyn would be able to tell at a glance.

"You take the sword," he told Serana, handing it to her. "I insist."

"I've got magic, and my other…abilities," Serana protested.

"But you know how to fight with a blade," Marcus said. "I've seen you use that little toothpick of yours there," he continued, pointing to the steel dagger at her belt.

"Toothpick?!" the vampire girl exclaimed indignantly.

"Take the sword," Marcus insisted again. "It will set my mind at ease. You'll need something to defend yourself if you run out of magicka. Even Tamsyn will conjure a magical blade when she needs to."

"A bound sword, hmm?" Serana mused. "I've heard of the spell, but I don't know how to cast it."

"When this is all over, I'm sure my wife will teach you if you ask," Marcus smiled.

"Alright," Serana said, relenting. "You're right, of course. I do know how to use a blade, and it would be foolish to leave this beauty behind." She fastened the scabbard to her belt and adjusted the straps for comfort. "Well, since the Bow isn't here, where do we go now?"

"There's still a lot of cave to explore," Marcus pointed out. "We've barely scratched the surface, so to speak. Let's keep moving. Hopefully there won't be anymore Shelobs running around down here."

There weren't. At least, not while they explored to the limit of the tunnel, which apparently ended with a rickety rope-and-board suspension bridge over an impossibly deep chasm. There was a ledge on the far side, but the torchlight didn't extend far enough for them to be able to see anything on the other side.

"I'll go across first, and check it out," Marcus told her. "You wait here."

"Uh-uh," Serana said, shaking her head. "I'm not being left behind. We've come this far together."

"I'm not going that far," Marcus scowled. "It's just to the ledge on the other side to have a look around. I just don't trust this bridge."

"And what if you find some kind of secret door or hidden passage we can't see from here, huh?" Serana pointed out. "Like you said before in the Ancestor Glade, if it will hold your weight, it will hold mine. Go ahead and cross, but I'll be right behind you."

Sighing in frustration, knowing he had no right to order her around, Marcus gave up. "Fine," he said, "but wait until I'm completely across before you come over."

The bridge creaked and groaned alarmingly, and at one point it shuddered, causing Marcus to freeze before he proceeded. He'd never really gotten over his fear of heights, but at least he couldn't _see_ how far he would fall this time. He could hear water rushing from somewhere down below, but the noise rebounded and reverberated up and down the chasm, so it was impossible to tell how deep it was.

Serana dutifully waited until he was across, before lightly making the trip herself. They searched all over the ledge, but could find nothing. It appeared to be a dead-end.

"Now what?" Serana demanded. "There's nothing here!"

"I don't know," Marcus admitted. "Let me think for a moment."

"Could the Elder Scrolls have been wrong about the location?" Serana asked.

Marcus shook his head. "I don't think so," he replied. The Elder Scrolls _might_ be wrong, but he was convinced Akatosh wouldn't have sent him on a snipe hunt like this.

"Maybe we missed something back there on our way in," he suggested. "Let's go back and look again."

Without thinking, the two began to cross the bridge together. A sharp _crack_ echoed through the cave, and Marcus immediately grabbed Serana to try and throw her to safety, but it was already too late. The strain of two people was too much for the ancient bridge, and the rotted boards snapped as the ropes which anchored it to the far ledge disintegrated. Marcus' worst fear came to life as he felt himself plummeting down.

Serana's shriek filled the air as they fell, but the torch – which Marcus realized he still held in one hand – had gone out due to the sudden rush of wind, like a candle flame being snuffed out from a forceful breath.

It may only have been seconds, but it seemed a lifetime for Marcus as they fell, his entire double-life passing in front of his eyes. His biggest regret was not seeing Tamsyn again before he died. Suddenly he hit water. It was deep and cold, and rushing through the chasm like a stampede of mammoths. One second he was falling freely, the next he was soaked to the skin gasping for breath. The current carried him along, helpless as one of Lucia's dolls, and all he could do was try to keep his head above water. That wasn't always possible, as the river often went under solid rock, and he was forced under without warning.

The only light came from phosphorescent fungi. Desperately, Marcus scrabbled in a side pouch and found the necklace he had stashed there that the reveler had given him. Somehow he managed to slip it over his head, after removing his Talos amulet, and breathing became a little easier. The river carried him over a steep falls, and he braced himself for impact, only to find that he was still subject to the whims of the current, which pushed him further along, under another shelf of stone.

He had no idea if Serana was anywhere close to him, either ahead or behind. He could see nothing in the darkness, hear nothing but the rush of water. He felt battered, beaten and bruised, and when at last he was deposited on a sand bar, after going over yet one more falls, he immediately was set upon by frostbite spiders. At least these weren't as big as Shelob, back in the entrance cavern. Still there were two…no, three…no, wait, make that five of the big bastards.

"Where'd _you_ come from?" he heard, and his heart lifted.

"Serana!" Marcus cried, relieved. "You're alright!"

"I've been better!" the vampire girl said sourly. "That was quite a ride."

"I don't want to go again," Marcus gritted, swinging at a dark shape looming towards him. There was just enough light from the glowing mushrooms to see a few feet in front of him, but it was a tough fight, nonetheless, and several minutes passed before the only sound in the cavern was rushing water, and the labored breathing of one exhausted adventurer.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Marcus asked Serana as they paused to take stock of their surroundings.

"I'm fine," the vampire girl said. "Water is not my favorite element, but I'll take it over fire. Where do we go from here?"

"It looks like there's only one way," Marcus pointed out. "Let's follow this river and see where it leads."

The river eventually disappeared under another ledge of rock, but there was a path to one side which seemed to lead deeper into the tunnels. Marcus and Serana followed this path in near-total darkness, until the darkness seemed to lessen somewhat.

"Is it my imagination," Serana asked, "or is there light up ahead?"

"I see it too," Marcus confirmed. "Let's go see what's there, but be prepared to fight."

"Always," Serana said grimly.

The light grew a little bit, the further along they went, and eventually they found themselves at a sort of crossroads of tunnels. The light came from a torch, lying on the ground next to the body of a dead Breton woman.

"What is _she_ doing down here?" Serana wondered.

"She probably got lost, like us," Marcus surmised, searching the area for clues. A campfire had been set up, but it had long since gone out. Marcus relit it with the torch, and as the circle of light from it expanded, he could see more clearly that this was some kind of encampment. A bedroll was set up in a small hollow of rock, with a chest next to it. A cookpot sat near the fire, but whatever had been in it was gone now.

"What's this?" Serana asked, picking up a piece of parchment she found lying near the dead woman.

Marcus came over. "What does it say?" he asked. He had found a few lesser potions and some coins, but didn't feel right about taking them, so he left them alone, confiscating only the torches he'd found.

"' _Sister, I know that you'll come find me, but it will be too late. If you find this letter, get out of this forsaken cave as soon as possible. We were fools to think we could live so close to such creatures and live peacefully…'"_ Serana broke off, her voice thick with emotion. "I don't want to read the rest," she said quietly. She handed the note to Marcus.

"' _I should've headed back to camp with you after we placed the torches down here,'"_ he read in a low voice. _"'I thought these trolls would be different, that they would somehow understand that we didn't want to hurt them. I am now cornered and it's only a matter of time before one of the trolls decides to finish me off. I hope it is a quick death. Farewell, my sister.'"_

Marcus solemnly put the note back where Serana had found it. "So that's the story," he said. "I thought I smelled trolls." He said nothing more, but headed up one of the tunnels that seemed to lead upwards. It ended in a shaft too steep for them to climb, but through which daylight and fresh air came down. The tumbled-down stones seemed to indicate that this had been a way in and out of Darkfall Cave at one time, but now it was strictly one-way in. They returned to the crossroads. The only other way from here was down, so down they went.

Marcus didn't see the trip-wire trap in the dark until too late, even with the torchlight, and he just barely managed to pull Serana back against the wall before the boulders came rumbling down. Covering her with his body, he took the brutal pounding as they passed, wincing when he was finally able to stand straight again.

"Thanks," Serana said gratefully. "That would have hurt!"

"Trust me," Marcus grimaced, "it did. Who sets up a trap like that in a cave?"

"It might have been that woman back there, trying to keep the trolls away," Serana suggested.

"Possibly," Marcus said doubtfully. "But how did she lift those heavy boulders into position?"

For that they had no answer, and so resumed their descent, after Marcus retraced his steps back to the campfire to relight his torch. The tunnel continued to descend, leading deeper into the bowels of the mountain. Eventually, it opened into a chamber illuminated here and there with more of the luminescent fungi. It seemed to be a large area, but they couldn't be certain, as it was still quite dark. To their right, along the wall as they emerged, they could see the glow of another campfire, and in that light they saw the silhouettes of two cave trolls, prowling nearby. One was up on a ledge above the fire, the other was down at their level.

"Two of them!" Serana hissed. "Can we take them, do you think?"

"I'm not even going to tangle with them," Marcus muttered, unslinging his bow. "I'm going to peg them from here." _I hope!_ he thought to himself.

He took careful aim and let the first ebony arrow fly. It sunk up to the fletching in the chest of the first troll, prowling around the campfire. The other, sensing something was amiss, began growling, jumping up and down, and posturing.

"That's it," Marcus grinned. "Make yourself a perfect target!" The second arrow planted itself between the troll's three eyes.

"Nice shooting!" Serana said, impressed.

"Thank you," Marcus smiled. "I see water over that way, and I have no idea how deep it is, so let's hug the wall and work our way around."

"Good idea," Serana grimaced. "I've had enough of water for a while."

There was a chest near the campfire, covered in blood and viscera from the trolls' last feast. Marcus looked at it in distaste, and gingerly opened it. There was a bit more gold and a few more gems in here, which he added to what he had already found, but there was nothing else of interest beyond some common armor and weapons he had no intention of lugging through the caverns.

They continued to follow the path that seemed to follow around the perimeter of the cavern, leading to another winding tunnel that merely marked a transition from one chamber to another. The next cavern, however, was lit not only by the glowing mushrooms, but by braziers, burning brightly, set near a large, domed structure embedded in the ground. A figure stood near the structure, and it turned as they approached. In the light of the braziers they could see it was an elf – a male – but paler than snow on the mountains.

"Come closer," the elf smiled in a welcoming tone. "I will not hurt you."

Marcus hadn't realized he was crouching until the elf spoke. Sheepishly, he straightened. "Who are you?" he asked, marveling at the sight before him. He had read the book, _Fall of the Snow Prince,_ by Lokheim, and the man before him seemed to fit the description to a "T."

"I am Knight-Paladin Gelebor," the pale elf said. "Welcome to the Great Chantry of Auri-El."

"This cavern is a temple to Auriel?" Serana asked, bewildered.

"Auriel," Knight-Paladin Gelebor mused, "Auri-El, Alkosh, Akatosh…so many different names for the sovereign of the snow elves."

"You're a Falmer!" Marcus couldn't help blurting out excitedly.

Gelebor frowned. "I prefer the name 'snow elf'," he said, not unkindly. "The name 'Falmer' usually holds a negative meaning to most travelers. Those twisted creatures you call Falmer, I call the Betrayed."

"I guess you know why we're here, then," Serana drawled.

"Of course," Gelebor nodded. "You're here for Auriel's Bow. Why else would you be here?" His mouth quirked at the corners, as if at some private joke. Marcus warmed to the man immediately. "I can help you get it," Gelebor continued, "but first, I must have your assistance."

Serana, however, didn't seem as impressed. "How could you know we would come here looking for the Bow?" she persisted.

Gelebor shrugged. "For the thousands of years I've served as the Chantry's sentinel, there hasn't been a single visitor here for any other reason. They request Auriel's Bow, and I request their assistance. It's been repeated so many times, I can't imagine it any other way."

Serana scowled. "Sounds like we don't have a choice, then."

"Not at all," Gelebor frowned. "You absolutely have a choice. You could turn around now and travel back from wherever you started empty-handed." He shrugged again. "Or, you could assist me."

Marcus decided to step in before Serana could say something that might offend the snow elf. "How can we help you?" he asked in a placating tone.

Gelebor's eyes were sad, but his voice was firm as he replied, "I need you to kill Arch-Curate Vyrthur…my brother."

"What?" Marcus gasped. "Kill your brother? I don't understand. Why?"

"The kinship between us is gone," Gelebor said quietly. "I don't understand what he's become, but he's no longer the brother I once knew. It was the Betrayed…they did something to him. I just don't know why Auri-El would allow this to happen."

 _I would ask him for you, if only I could speak with him,_ Marcus thought sadly. Aloud he asked, "What did the Betrayed do?"

Gelebor's eyes hardened. "They swept into the Chantry without warning and began killing everyone without pause." The snow elf's face was haunted as he continued speaking, almost as if to himself. "The Chantry was a place of peaceful worship. I led a small group of paladins, but we were no match for the Betrayed's sheer numbers. They slaughtered everyone and stormed the inner Sanctum where I believe they corrupted Vyrthur."

"How do you know if he's even still alive, then?" Serana asked impassively, and Marcus could have kicked her.

"He's alive," Gelebor answered stiffly. "I've seen him. But something's wrong. He never looks as though he's in pain or under duress. He just…stands there and watches, as though waiting."

"Have you tried going to the Inner Sanctum yourself?" Marcus inquired.

Gelebor shook his head. "Leaving the Wayshrines unguarded would be violating my sacred duty as a Knight-Paladin of Auriel," he explained. While Marcus could understand that, Serana snorted in derision. Gelebor ignored her and went on, "And an assault on the Betrayed guarding the Inner Sanctum would only end with my death."

Serana opened her mouth to say something, but Marcus cut in to forestall an argument. "What are the Wayshrines?"

Gelebor smiled. "Let me show you," he said. Turning to face the dome behind him, he paused as though to summon an inner power, then cast a spell at the sun symbol on the top of the dome. Instantly the ground trembled beneath their feet, and Serana's orange eyes opened wide as she staggered to keep her balance. The dome began to rise from the ground, bringing with it a structure similar to a Dwemer elevator, or lift. But the architecture of the Wayshrine was unlike any Dwarven construction Marcus had ever seen.

"This structure is known as a Wayshrine," Gelebor explained. "They were used for meditation and for transport, when the Chantry was a place of enlightenment. Prelates of these shrines were charged with teaching the mantras of Auri-El to our Initiates."

In spite of her recent scathing comments, Serana seemed impressed, and her manner was much less confrontational as she asked, "What does the basin in the center signify?"

"Once the Initiate completed his mantras," Gelebor said, "he'd dip a ceremonial ewer in the basin at the Wayshrine's center and proceed to the next Wayshrine."

"So these Initiates had to lug around a heavy pitcher of water?" Serana blinked. "Marvelous. How long would they have to do that?"

"Well, once the Initiate's enlightenment was complete," Gelebor said patiently, "he'd bring the ewer to the Chantry's Inner Sanctum. Pouring the contents of the ewer into the sacred basin of the Sanctum would allow him to enter for an audience with the Arch-Curate himself."

Serana sniffed. "All that just to end up dumping it out? Makes no sense to me," she said sarcastically.

"It's symbolic," Gelebor said stiffly. "I don't expect you to understand it."

"Serana," Marcus said sternly, "there's no need to be rude."

Stricken, Serana swallowed hard, nodding in submission. In the short time she had known Marcus, she had developed an abiding respect for him. He could have killed her the first moment she fell from her tomb, weakened and helpless, but he had not; in all their dealings together, he had always treated her with kindness and fairness. It was the way he treated everyone they met, attempting to reason with people and avoid a confrontation, fighting only when he had no other option. She felt suddenly ashamed, as though she had let him down. It was not a feeling she liked. "So let's get this straight," she said, more politely. "We need to do all this to get into the temple, so we can kill your brother and claim Auriel's Bow?"

Gelebor nodded. "I know how it all sounds," he admitted. "But if there was another way, I'd have done it long ago. The only way to get to my brother is by following in the Initiate's footsteps and traveling from Wayshrine to Wayshrine, just as they did. The first lay at the end of Darkfall Passage, a cavern that represents the absence of enlightenment."

He turned to Marcus and continued. "There are five in total, spread far apart across the Chantry."

Marcus nodded. "Okay, how many caves are there?"

"Caves?" Gelebor echoed. "Oh, no. The Chantry encompasses far more than a few caves, as you'll soon discover. But before I send you on your way, you'll need the Initiate's Ewer." He handed Marcus a large vessel of pure white marble, with a handle and a narrow neck above a rounded lower section. Intricately carved with symbols and decorated with scales that jutted out at the bottom, it was a thing of beauty unlike anything Marcus had ever seen before, and he accepted it reverently. It was surprisingly lighter than he expected.

"Once you've located a Wayshrine," Gelebor was saying now, "there will be a spectral Prelate tending to it. They will allow you to draw the waters from the shrine's basin as if you've been enlightened." He paused and smiled at the Dragonborn. "This may be the last time we're able to converse, so if you have any questions before you leave, I suggest you ask them. Otherwise, all I can do now is grant you my hopes for a safe journey."

"You mentioned spectral Prelates," Marcus began. "Who are they?"

Gelebor nodded. "Ah, yes. They are the ghosts of the snow elf priests that tended the Wayshrines before being slaughtered by the Betrayed. Through the grace of Auri-El they were restored to their spectral form to enable them to continue their duties."

"Well, that's great," Marcus enthused. "They'll be able to help us."

Gelebor shook his head. "I'm afraid that in their current form, they still believe the Chantry to be an active center of worship. They won't respond to you in any way other than believing that you're an Initiate and you're undertaking the journey to the Inner Sanctum."

"Oh, bummer," Marcus muttered.

"So just what is this Chantry?" Serana asked, curious.

Gelebor spread out his hands, gesturing in a vague manner. "This is – or was – the epicenter of our religion. Most of the snow elf people worshipped Auri-El. The Chantry was constructed near the beginning of the First Era to provide a retreat for those that wished to become enlightened."

"Only most of them?" Serana repeated, puzzled.

The Knight-Paladin nodded. "Our empire had temples to some of the other deities: Trinimac, Syrabane, Jephre and Phynaster rounded out the rest. But those temples paled in comparison to the glory of the Chantry and its Wayshrines," Gelebor continued.

"Are the Wayshrines part of the Chantry?" Marcus inquired.

"Oh yes," Gelebor confirmed. "They were an important part of the process here. They represented the steps the Initiate took on the path to total enlightenment. Sadly, the magic used to construct these wonders were lost long before I arrived here."

"Could you tell me more about your people?" Marcus asked now. He'd only ever encountered the Falmer – what Gelebor had called 'the Betrayed.' To actually meet an ancient Snow Elf untouched by the perfidy of the Dwemer – and a Knight-Paladin, no less – awed and inspired him. He was fascinated by the Snow Elf, and reluctant to leave him. What would Tamsyn think when he told her? He couldn't wait to see the look on her face when she found out he'd met a real, live Snow Elf.

"We were once a wealthy and prosperous society that occupied a portion of Skyrim," Gelebor explained. "Unfortunately, we were constantly at war with the Nords who claimed the land as their ancestral home. We had always maintained an uneasy alliance with the underground-dwelling dwarves, and when faced with extinction we turned to them for help. Surprisingly, they agreed to protect us, but demanded a terrible price…the blinding of our race."

"That's horrible!" Serana exclaimed. "How could your people have allowed that to happen?"

"We didn't have much choice at the time," Gelebor replied sadly. "There were splinter groups that resisted the agreement, and even some that sought alternate alliances. But when it was all said and done, those elves were either slaughtered, vanished or gave up and took the dwarves' bargain."

"What exactly was it that turned them into the Betrayed?" Marcus asked. "My wife, Tamsyn, is a renowned healer. She might be able to help them."

"After all this time," Gelebor said sadly, "I doubt that very much could be done for them. I've often asked myself that same question: what caused the blindness? I had heard it was accomplished with a toxin. But that certainly wouldn't have been enough to devolve them into the sad and twisted beings they've become." He sighed as he continued, "The Chantry is quite isolated, so it took some time for word of the dwarves' offer to reach us here. By the time the compact had been completed, it was too late for us to even attempt to intervene."

"So that's why you're not blind," Serana observed. Gelebor nodded.

"Correct. We only numbered perhaps a hundred at a time, so our presence remained a secret to the dwarves and the Nords. Ironically, our undoing came at the hand of our own people."

"You mean the Betrayed?" Marcus clarified.

"Yes," Gelebor replied. "They swarmed the Chantry in vast numbers until we were completely overrun. We never really stood a chance. I assume that the Arch-Curate was corrupted by them when they found a way to breach the Inner Sanctum."

"Are you the only Snow Elf left, then?" Marcus hesitated to ask, but his curiosity was flying high. "Are there any others in the Chantry?"

Gelebor shook his head. "Vyrthur and myself are the only two Snow Elves that remain," he said stoically. Whatever he felt about that fate, he kept to himself. "Now you must go. You would not have come all this way for Auriel's Bow on a fool's errand. You must need it for some important reason, or you would not be here. The sooner you can reach the Inner Sanctum and kill my brother, the sooner I will be able to retrieve the Bow for you."

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Marcus asked, concerned. "He's your brother, after all."

"Not anymore," Gelebor said firmly. "He hasn't been my brother since long before you were born. And you're procrastinating," the Snow Elf continued with a ghost of a smile. "Go. I will be fine. But…thank you for your concern." He paused a moment, before given them a few final words of instruction. "I'm sure you will find more of the Betrayed in the tunnels beyond," he told them. "Follow the tube worms. They will lead you on the right path. From the Wayshrine of Illumination, you will be able to reach the next four Wayshrines in the Vale beyond. You must draw water from each before you can reach the Inner Sanctum. Good luck!"

There was nothing further Marcus or Serana could do except step through the wall that became a portal to Darkfall Passage, which would eventually lead to the Wayshrine of Illumination.

"He's willing to have us kill his _brother_ ," Serana remarked, thoughtfully, once they were through. "I…kind of know how he feels."

"Sometimes the people we love change," Marcus said gently. "It isn't always for the better. When that happens, we sometimes have to accept that they aren't the people we thought we knew."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," Serana remarked.

Marcus nodded. "My…first wife, Lynne, had a falling out with some of her family members. They disagreed over something, and her brothers basically cut her off and refused to have anything to do with her anymore. Problem was they were custodians for the care of her parents. When she was cut out of their lives, it meant she was unable to see her own mother and father again. She wasn't invited to their funerals when they died."

"That's pretty harsh," Serana sympathized. "What did she do about it?"

"Nothing," Marcus replied grimly. "There was nothing she could do. Her brothers controlled her parents' estate. She didn't have a legal leg to stand on. They even put a restraining order on her so she couldn't visit the graves. She had a few…old portraits of them," he said, quickly covering his near slip. "It was all she had to remember them by. She inherited nothing else."

"Want me to go bite the brothers for you?" Serana offered, making Marcus laugh.

"No, Serana," he said with a smile. "That won't be necessary. They died before I came to Skyrim. The gods will judge them."

"Well, if you change your mind, the offer is still there," the vampire girl grinned, showing her fangs. "If there's anyone who does something you don't like, I'd be more than happy to educate them on the finer points of…well, _my_ finer points." She grinned again, her fangs gleaming in the subterranean glow.

"Good to know," Marcus nodded, but privately he was hoping Serana might change her mind about her vampirism and seek a cure. He hadn't missed how she had perked up when he'd mentioned Falion to Clavicus Vile.

* * *

Gelebor hadn't been wrong about the Falmer – Marcus still thought of them in that term. "Betrayed" implied he felt some measure of sympathy for them. While that might be how the Knight-Paladin felt about his kin, the Dragonborn simply wanted to pass through their tunnels and caverns in one piece, without breaking the ceremonial Ewer. But while the Falmer were bad, the chaurus and the hunters were worse. Half the time, unless he used Aura Whisper, he never saw them coming. He was using Aura Whisper a lot. It was almost completely black inside Darkfall Passage, and even Serana complained that her usually perceptive night vision needed _some_ source of light to separate _almost_ complete darkness from 'inside-of-a-tomb' darkness.

"You've got those tube worms," Marcus pointed out as they crept along. They deliberately kept their voices low. "They give off some light."

"And they disappear when we get too close," the vampire girl groused. "Gelebor didn't tell us they'd do that."

"There're those glowing mushrooms," Marcus continued, "and those phosphorescent rocks."

"Not enough of them all along the way," Serana grumbled. "Though I have to say, these blue and purple flowers are pretty and unusual."

"Yeah," Marcus admitted, pocketing a few to give to Tamsyn later. "I don't remember seeing anything like this in Blackreach."

"What's Blackreach?" Serana asked.

So Marcus told her a bit about the place he'd had to explore with Argis to get the first Elder Scroll, the one concerning dragons. He told her about the Falmer there, the ore veins that produced soul gems crystals, and the dragon he'd had to fight.

"He almost killed me," Marcus said soberly. "Thank goodness Argis was there, or we wouldn't be here now."

"Sounds like a lovely place," Serana drawled. "Why would you go back?"

"Because the Thalmor don't know it's there," he replied. And he told her a little bit about his plans to get rid of the Aldmeri Dominion, once and for all. Serana listened attentively until he finished.

"That's…quite a lot to think about," she admitted. "And these Thalmor…they really want to kill off everyone who isn't an Altmer?"

"That's what we've been able to learn so far," Marcus said. "But they're not ready to strike yet. That's why they keep stirring the pot between the Empire and Skyrim."

"And that's why you keep sending them…what did you call them?"

"Red herrings," Marcus grinned. "It's a term to describe a diversion, a false lead. They go running off where they think there's trouble, just to watch and enjoy, and so they can report back that their plans are moving along smoothly. And when they're gone, everyone gets up off the ground and heads back into hiding."

"How are you so certain they all leave?" Serana asked. It was a fair question, but Marcus and Tamsyn had thought this out thoroughly.

"Illusion spells and Detect Life work very well, when I'm not around to use Aura Whisper," Marcus replied. "Any Dominion stragglers usually get picked off and don't return to report what they might have seen."

"Doesn't that make them suspicious?"

"Probably," Marcus shrugged. "But after a few times they tend not to stick around after a 'battle.' They can't prove anything's amiss, and Tullius, Balgruuf and Ulfric play up the hostilities in public. In private, they grudgingly agree they work pretty well together. Madanach's the only loose cannon. Tamsyn keeps a pretty tight rein on him, and Delphine has a lot of influence over him, but we really need the Reachfolk for this plan to succeed."

"Why?" Serana asked.

"Because they have an inborn resistance to magic," he replied. "They use it themselves, and they have no reluctance to use it on their enemies. They're also masters of guerilla warfare."

"I don't know that term," the girl said, confused. "What does that mean?"

"It means they're masters of stealth," Marcus explained. "They can get in, strike and get out unseen. They're fast, quiet and deadly. So yeah, I want them on my team."

"It all sounds rather exciting," Serana admitted. "All that plotting and planning. I almost wish I could be a part of something like that."

"I thought that's what we're already doing," Marcus grinned, and saw in the dim light of the fungus they passed that Serana looked thoughtfully pleased.

They continued on through the tunnels and caverns, fighting the nests of Falmer and their hellspawn pets. They rested for a time in a small side chamber, taking turns at keeping watch. Fortunately, nothing bothered them, and they pressed on after a few hours of sleep and food – for Marcus, at least. Serana claimed she wasn't hungry, but finally admitted she was reluctant to 'try Falmer.'

"Well, if you get hungry enough, you'll eat what I put on your plate, little girl," Marcus warned her. "This isn't the Bannered Mare where you can order off the menu." Serana giggled.

There were traps to avoid. Of course there were. Tripwires were nearly invisible in the blackness, and could trigger either a deadfall of boulders or an enormous claw made of chaurus hunter legs spring-loaded to pierce the unwary. Marcus had experienced these before in other Dwemer ruins taken over by Falmer, so he knew to expect them. Seeing and avoiding them before setting them off was another matter entirely.

"I hate this place!" Serana exclaimed after she pushed Marcus out of the way of another claw trap.

Marcus could only agree. The sooner they got out of this cave system, the happier he would be. He had only just avoided dropping the Ceremonial Ewer when Serana pushed him. He really didn't want to have to backtrack to get another if it broke – even if that would be allowed.

There was another tripwire further along, just under the bone chimes that served the Falmer as an early warning alarm, but this time he saw it just before breaking it, and he stopped short.

"Hold on a minute," he said, passing the Ewer to her to hold. He crouched down and followed it back to its origin – the trip-latch of a boulder platform. "I saw Brynjolf disarm one of these once," he said. "Let me see if I can do what he did."

"Who's Brynjolf?" Serana asked. "That's the second time you've mentioned him."

"An associate of mine," Marcus explained. "One of the people heading up our intelligence network. He's also a thief, and a very good one at that."

"You associate with thieves?" Serana asked incredulously.

"A Dragonborn's gotta do what a Dragonborn's gotta do," Marcus said wryly. "I'm up against the Aldmeri Dominion itself. I need every advantage I can get. Now hush while I see if I can disarm this without setting it off."

Keeping tension on the wire with one hand, he severed it with his dagger between the ring pins holding it low to the ground. Replacing his dagger he then wound the wire tightly around the pin closest to the wall where it was anchored. Only when he was certain he had it secured did he remove his other hand from the wire. Nothing happened, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Okay, that's got it, I think," he said. "Slip through quickly, and don't breathe!"

Serana laughed. "I don't, remember?" she gently mocked him as she glided past.

"That's right," he growled playfully. "Make fun of the old man and his memory loss. Pretty soon I'll be joining the Greybeards up on their mountain."

"You're not that old," Serana soothed. "I'm still older than you."

"No offense, little missy, but you've been hidden away for a while. I don't think that counts towards world experience."

"I still lived for a couple hundred years before that happened, though," Serana confessed.

"As a vampire," Marcus clarified. "I believe there's a world of difference between living as a human, with all of the emotions, strife, toils and love we pack into one short lifetime, and existing as a vampire, removed from all of that. And I've been fortunate enough to have been granted a second lifetime, so the joys I've experienced, as well as the tragedies, are that much more precious to me." He said nothing more, but led the way up the passage that dog-legged first to the right, then back to the left. Serana followed along behind him, a troubled expression on her face.

Eventually they came to a dead end, though obviously, it wasn't exactly an end. It was clear to Marcus, who by now knew what to look for, that there was a concealed door here. A glance upwards revealed the claw trap waiting to be sprung, and he and Serana judiciously took a few steps backwards. On the tunnel wall to their left were two rope pulls.

"Which one?" Serana asked. "One of them is bound to open the door, and the other…"

"Sets off the trap," Marcus finished grimly. "There's no way of telling which one is which. Look here," he said, pointing at the floor. "These holes usually mean spikes of some kind that shoot up when the trap is sprung. And these angled holes here, pointing right to where we're standing, is a good indication of poisoned darts."

"You know a lot about traps," Serana said, impressed.

"Personal experience," Marcus said drily, mentally wincing at the memories.

"I wonder what they were keeping in there," Serana mused.

"Or what they might have been keeping out of their tunnels," Marcus added. "Alright, here goes." He waved Serana back a few more steps, then reached over and pulled the rope on the left.

A grinding, grating sound rumbled through the tunnel as the hidden door at the end slid open.

"That's it!" Serana exclaimed, moving forward.

"Hold it!" Marcus' arm shot out, holding her back. _"Laas yah niir,"_ he whispered, taking note of the most immediately life-forms beyond the door. Chief among these was a sabre cat, of all things, resting not more than ten feet away. It raised its head lazily and began sniffing the air. Its coat was unlike anything Marcus had seen before, green and white with stripes as well as spots. It was the perfect camouflage for its environment, hiding in a cavern filled with phosphorescent fungi. If Aura Whisper hadn't lit the creature up, he would never have seen it until too late.

Serana saw it too, and shot off a blast of Ice Spikes from one hand while draining its life with the other. Caught off guard, the cat never stood a chance and went down swiftly.

"Almost seems a shame to kill it," Serana murmured. "Look at that beautiful pelt!"

"It would have tried to kill us," Marcus reminded her. "Come on. I think I see a path this way."

It was a rocky path, not a smooth one, and it led downward to their right hugging the outer wall of the chamber which contained a pool of water, inky black in the gloom, but which reflected the light of the hundreds of phosphorescent fungi and rocks that littered the chamber, making it seem brighter than usual. Green and white striped and spotted deer bounded away from them as they descended the path to a central column made of rock that stretched to the ceiling, lost overhead in the shadows. The column appeared to be partly natural, and partly worked by ancient hands.

More of the gleaming, glowing flowers were strewn along the path here, as well as another type they avoided after Marcus inadvertently bumped into one and received a faceful of toxic spores for his efforts. Choking and gagging for several minutes, his vision swimming before him, Serana frantically scrabbled into his backpack for him to find a curative as he convulsed. When he was finally able to breathe again, and the pinpoints of bright lights in his vision subsided, Marcus hoarsely declared, "Don't bump those flowers, Serana."

They continued on the path, winding their way upwards again, crossing over the lake. Aura Whisper showed them two more of the unique sabre cats in hiding, directly along their course, so they reluctantly had to kill the beasts to get past. A brighter light ahead in the distance drew their attention, and they could see over a rise in the path the warm, yellow glow of firelight from braziers placed around another dome in the ground.

"I think that's the next Wayshrine!" Serana cried happily. "We made it!"

"We made it to the _next_ one," Marcus reminded her. "We still have several to go."

"I know," Serana said, "but it means we can get out of this cave!"

"So you can complain about the sun?" he teased with a twinkle in his eye.

"I'm allowed to change my mind," the vampire girl said defensively.

Marcus said nothing, but grinned as they approached the Wayshrine of Illumination. A ghostly figure hovered nearby, waiting for them.

" _Greetings, Initiate,"_ the ghost said. _"May Auri-El's brilliance illuminate your path. I am Prelate Sidanyis. This is the Wayshrine of Illumination. Are you prepared to honor the mantras of Auri-El and fill your vessel with His enlightenment?"_

Since Gelebor had already warned him that the Prelates wouldn't respond to any other questioning, all Marcus could do at this point was to agree.

"I am," he said, though he wasn't exactly sure what mantras he was supposed to honor.

" _Then behold Auri-El's gift, my child. May it light your path as you seek tranquility within the Inner Sanctum."_

The figure turned and cast a spell at the sun symbol on top of the dome, as Gelebor had, and once more the ground trembled beneath their feet as the Wayshrine rose into the air. Inside the shrine, the basin awaited, and Marcus dipped the Ewer into it. As he did so, he reflected on everything that had happened so far to bring Serana and him to this point. There really was no turning back, and there hadn't been from the moment they agreed to kill Gelebor's brother Vyrthur. He still didn't feel comfortable about that; there had to be some reasonable explanation why Vyrthur had turned against his brother. Perhaps they could reach him, but Marcus intended to talk to the Arch-Curate first; there was a chance it was all some horrible misunderstanding, as it had been in the case of his brothers-in-law, and perhaps there would be no need for violence. It was worth a try.

Satisfied with his decision, and certain Akatosh would want him to make the effort, he already felt more enlightened, and was pleased to see one wall open up to a new view; it was still a cave, but a brighter one than Darkfall Passage, which could be seen through another wall.

"Are you ready?" Serana asked, oblivious to what had been going through the Dragonborn's mind.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm ready. Let's do this." They stepped through the wall.

* * *

"It's still a cave!" Serana complained.

"It's brighter than the one we left," Marcus pointed out.

"But it's still a cave!" she whined.

"Look," Marcus soothed, "there's a path here, and it leads up and out. Let's keep going."

The trail wound up around a central shaft, with more of the gleaming blossoms – still pretty, but not as impressive in full daylight – scattered along the way. The edges of the path crumbled dangerously, and they had to scramble back against the side wall of the shaft as it became narrower and narrower, but eventually they emerged at the top and found themselves on a plateau overlooking a wide, snow-covered valley hidden behind the mountains.

Serana made a gasping sound. "Wow! Look at this place!" she whispered. "I've never seen anything so beautiful! It kind of makes it all worthwhile." She turned and smiled at Marcus. "I'm glad you're here with me to see this."

"No more complaining?" he grinned.

"For a while, anyway," she promised, still looking around. "Hey look! Down there," she pointed. "There's another one of those sabre cats!"

"So I guess we'll have to be on our guard, then," Marcus mused. "Let's avoid them if we can. If they attack, of course, all bets are off."

"Which way do we go from here?" Serana asked. "And where do you think the next Wayshrine is?"

"I have no clue," Marcus admitted. "I don't have a Shout that will help me locate things I'm looking to find. I might be able to do a spell Tamsyn showed me, but I suck at magic, and it will only give us a general direction."

"Go ahead, then," Serana said. "One direction out of eight is a good start, at least."

Marcus concentrated on the Clairvoyance spell Tamsyn had taught him, but what came out of his hands spilled away from them for only a short distance before dissipating.

"Try it again," Serana urged.

"I can't," Marcus gasped, breathing hard. "I'm out of magicka. I told you I wasn't good at this."

"Well, it appears to be going off that way," the vampire girl said helpfully, pointing to their right. "There might be a way down to the valley floor there, and maybe you can try it again from there."

Marcus nodded, feeling he had failed them, and led the way wordlessly from the edge of the plateau. The path took them over treacherous, rocky terrain, and Marcus offered his hand to Serana several times to help her over the slippery surface, where small pebbles threatened to twist an ankle or cause a small landslide that could plummet them down several painful yards. At last they reached the relatively level plain of the valley floor and looked around. Tumbled arches and piles of worked stone told the story of a thriving civilization that had collapsed ages ago. It saddened Marcus, even though he knew the Snow Elves had once been a warmongering race. Their downfall was not a victory for anyone, even the Nords. No one deserved to have their entire species degenerate into what the Falmer had become.

He attempted the Clairvoyance spell again, and before it puttered out he could see it led away from them, up a wooded hill past the tumbled arch.

"This way," he told Serana, who followed in his wake. It took some time, and they were forced to kill two more of the sabre cats on the way. They also passed another cave, studded with the hallmarks of Falmer occupancy.

"I don't think I want those things creeping up behind me," Serana insisted, and Marcus agreed she had a point. They cleared the cave before leaving it to continue up the hill. They were rewarded by the sight of another dome at the top, and the ghostly Prelate, who called himself Athling, opened the portal for them as soon as Marcus agreed to follow the mantras of Auri-El. He filled his ewer for the second time, nothing with some dismay that it was impossible to do so without losing some of the water he had gained from the first attempt.

"Maybe you're supposed to mingle all the waters?" Serana suggested.

"That's a good point," Marcus agreed. "I didn't think of that."

"Probably more of that symbology Gelebor told us about," the vampire girl shrugged.

The walls only showed where they had been, however, and since going back was not an option, they left the Wayshrine to explore more of the valley.

"Why didn't they take us to the next place?" Serana wondered out loud.

"I guess all we really did was unlock this one," Marcus reasoned. "This one is the Wayshrine of Learning, from what Athling said when he greeted us. So I guess we have to learn how to navigate our way around this lost valley."

"That makes sense, in a way," Serana nodded. "If we needed to come back here from one of the other Wayshrines, it might be faster, but we have to have visited each one in turn to take advantage of it."

"And if Falmer – the Betrayed, that is – were attacking the Chantry in the past, it makes sense for the Knight-Paladins to shut down the Wayshrines to keep them from being able to move freely through the valley," Marcus finished.

"That must have been awful for them," Serana said with sympathy, "to have to fight their own people or die, all while trying to defend the Chantry and the Inner Sanctum that was already overrun. They must have felt helpless."

"When you take an oath, or make a vow," Marcus said, "especially to a god, it's binding. There aren't too many ways you can get out of a commitment like that." It was a thought that troubled him. Hircine had been very quiet, and Marcus worried if the Daedric Prince was saving up to spring a transformation on him at the worst possible time. He had the Ring, but didn't really trust the Lord of the Hunt not to disregard the ability it gave him to control his transformations. And Marcus had deliberately not "gone wolf" through Darkfall Passage, hoping to wean himself off the dependency. He was the Dragonborn, not the plaything of a Daedric Prince, and that meant he had to rely on what he already knew to get through, though he was forced to admit that some of the werewolf abilities had come in handy.

They retraced their steps back down to the valley floor and explored more of the area, finding a path up to a troll's lair at the southernmost end of the basin. Serana launched a blast of fire from her staff at it and it went down with a whimper. There appeared to be a slope to the west of this area, leading up, but it was too steep for either Marcus or Serana to climb.

"We'll have to go back around," Marcus said. "There has to be a path or something we missed. This can't be all there is to this place. Gelebor made it sound huge, and I don't see any of the other Wayshrines around here, much less the Chantry itself."

After some searching, they found a trail leading up to a pass they had overlooked. Frostbite spiders attacked them at the top, but again, Serana's staff made short work of them.

"I could get used to fire like this," Serana grinned.

Once through the pass, the trail led down again, and opened into another valley, larger than the one behind them. A frozen lake dominated this area, with a rocky island jutting up in the middle. Marcus felt there was something familiar about the curvature of the stone.

"That's a Word Wall!" he exclaimed with delight. "We have to get down there before we leave this place!"

"Okay," Serana agreed, "but which way do we go from here? Do we follow the lake shore to the left or right?"

Marcus concentrated once more on the Clairvoyance spell and saw the purplish smoke drifting to the left before it evaporated. "That way," he pointed.

"What about that chest over there?" Serana asked. Marcus blinked and looked where she indicated. A skeleton draped over a box-like shape stuck in the snow.

"We check out the chest first," he amended, _"then_ we go to the left."

The chest contained some gold and gems, which Marcus felt was always good to have. In addition, however, there was a small book, written in some strange language that seemed to be all sharp angles and sickle-like curves. It was bound in fine green leather and embossed with a gold filigree border on the cover. Centered on the cover was a solid gold applique of an eight-pointed sun. he couldn't read a word of it, but slipped it in his pack to show Tamsyn later. Perhaps, if he was lucky enough to see Gelebor again, the Knight-Paladin might be able to translate it.

The Wayshrine, ghostly Prelate Celegriath told them, was the Wayshrine of Sight. Marcus filled the Ewer once more, but again, the walls only showed them places they had been.

"I guess we keep exploring," Serana said glumly.

"I guess so," Marcus agreed. "But look on the bright side: we haven't had anything really tough to fight since we got here, and we've already found three of the Wayshrines. We only have two more to go!"

"That's a positive, I suppose," Serana allowed. "Where to now? Did you want to check out that Word Wall down at the lake?"

"Not yet," Marcus said. "It's not going anywhere. We turned left to get here, so let's go see what was in the other direction."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Serana acquiesced happily. "Though I will warn you, I'm feeling…hungry."

"Noted," Marcus said easily. "We can go back and kill a sabre cat if you like."

"I can hold out a little longer," she promised. "But I'll need to eat soon."

"Not much on the menu here," Marcus said, "but I'll see what I can do for you."

He led them away from the Wayshrine, and once more, Serana was struck at how accepting he had been of her vampirism. Most people would have distanced themselves from her as quickly as possible. Marcus, on the other hand, actively found food sources for her that he had few qualms, if any, about offering up as a sacrifice. Bandits, mainly, but also wildlife while they'd been on the road. He'd step away and find something else to do while she fed, or turned a blind eye to her evenings out when they were in town. She knew the limits since she began travelling with him: it had to be someone who had forfeited the right to live, by preying on others weaker than themselves. And what did that make her?

Serana squirmed uncomfortably. She didn't want to answer that question, even to herself. She knew Marcus would be delighted if she decided to seek a cure, but she had been a vampire for so long, she wasn't sure she could function as a normal human being anymore, and she was afraid to make the attempt. On the one hand, becoming a vampire had given her an enormous amount of power; power she had sacrificed much to obtain. On the other hand, it hadn't been her choice, and it had ruined her family. At least she had reconciled with her mother, but Serana wondered what Valerica would say if she knew her daughter had even contemplated a cure. That was an argument she didn't want to have.

Marcus and Serana followed the shore of the frozen river that fed into the lake, winding their way back to its source as well as they were able. It ended in a waterfall that tumbled over the precipice above which was part of the chain of cliffs that hemmed in the forgotten valley. A grunting noise came from their right, and Marcus immediately dropped into a crouch, Serana following him. They edged closer and saw the biggest giant Marcus had ever seen – except for the Keepers in the Soul Cairn – lumbering around a hollow that had been washed out of the cliff face eons ago when the river had taken a different course.

"Let's get out of here—" Marcus began, but Serana was moving forward, fireball staff out and ready.

"I haven't had giant in a _long_ time," the vampire girl said dreamily. The fire in her eyes glowed preternaturally bright.

Fighting a giant was something Marcus always tried to avoid. As he had once told Serana, he didn't see the need to disturb them unless they threatened civilized areas. One look at Serana's face, however, and he realized any protests he might have had would have gone unheeded. There was a taut, sinister look on the girl's face. Her glowing eyes were practically incandescent, and it almost seemed as though her fangs were growing as her skin darkened to a stone-like gray. As he watched with mounting horror, wings sprouted from Serana's back, her hair receded and her brow began to bulge. The tips of her ears lengthened and became more pointed, and her fingers extended into claws. She looked the very image of her father, Lord Harkon, in his full vampiric form, only female.

 _She's got this,_ Marcus thought in dismay. _She doesn't need my help._

And indeed, the staff fell from Serana's clawed hands as she extended them with lightning in one and her life-draining ray in the other. Her wings lifted her into the air as she hovered and floated around the giant, darting in to slash with her claws, and maneuvering to get behind it to sink her fangs into its jugular. Marcus wanted to look away, but found himself unable to as Serana brought the giant down single-handedly and drank deeply of its lifeblood. It was over in less than ten minutes. Marcus could tell she was finished as her features returned to normal – or at least, what was normal for Serana – and her wings disappeared back into her body.

Marcus found he could move again, and turned his back to spare her any embarrassment. It didn't work. Serana cleared her throat as she approached him and began hesitantly, "Marcus…I'm sorry…"

"For what?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral.

"For scaring you like that," she said, spreading her hands helplessly. "I shouldn't have waited so long to feed, I know, but…I could smell all the blood from its lair and I just…I just lost control. But I promise you I would never hurt you."

"You didn't scare me, Serana," Marcus said honestly. "I've seen scarier things. Your father, among them," he added, quirking a smile, and eliciting a faint lift of the corner of her mouth in return. "I have to admit, though, that it intimidated me. I know _what_ you are, but more importantly, I know _who_ you are. I know you wouldn't knowingly hurt me. But as you said, you lost control. I think from now on we both need to make sure you…feed within a reasonable time frame. If the need comes over you again, it won't matter what promises you make. You will have to satisfy that basic urge. So let's just make sure that we reduce the risks as much as we can, okay?"

Serana nodded miserably. Marcus was being extraordinarily kind and understanding at this point, but it only served to make her feel worse. She was scared to admit she _had_ lost control, and if the giant hadn't been there, she might have had to attack him to feed. It wouldn't have ended well for either of them, and the quest would have failed. Not for the first time, she began to question _why_ she should remain as she was. What advantages did it give her, when it put her friends in danger? She had been very careful, while Marcus had gone to Ysgramor's Tomb, to make sure she stepped out every other night to feed. She would not willingly have risked the lives of Marcus' family simply because of hunger. He had trusted her too much for that.

Now it was _his_ life that was at risk, the longer they traveled together. But they were so close to finding Auriel's Bow and stopping her father, she couldn't back out now. And what would she do if they succeeded? What if they were actually able to find the Bow and stop Harkon from his mad scheme? What then? Where would she go? What would she do with her life? She had lived for so long even before being entombed with the Elder Scroll, but had been so isolated from the outer world that centuries had rolled by unnoticed. Everyone in her father's castle had been vampires or thralls. While the thralls had come and gone, cattle for the feeding, the vampires remained, so nothing had changed the whole time she had lived there. When she had returned, it had been as though she'd been gone only a few moments, not three eras.

She thought of Marcus and his life. By his own admission, he was on his second, granted a return to this world by the power of the gods. Even in the short time since he had come back, he had carved out a life for himself that included a wife and family. Talking with Sofie, Lucia and Blaise – Serana smiled when she thought of Marcus' older son – she felt deeply envious. They had everything she had wanted in a family life, but had been denied. They belonged; they were part of a greater whole, made stronger by the joining, and she wanted that.

Her words to Valerica in the Soul Cairn came back to haunt her. _"I want us to be a family again._ _But I don't know if we can ever have that. Maybe we don't deserve that kind of happiness. Maybe it isn't for us."_ There didn't appear to be a solution, Serana thought sadly to herself. At least, not one she was willing to contemplate at this time. With a sigh she followed Marcus, who was carefully crossing the ice that had built up in the river past the waterfall.

"Be careful!" he called out. "It's thinner over there." He pointed. "Stay over to this side here," and he gestured again.

Hot tears welled up in her eyes as she realized once more that he had been more concerned for her safety and well-being than her father ever had been. She kept her head down and watched her step as she crossed the ice.

"Why are we going this way?" she asked, when she got her voice under control.

"I saw something on the bank on this side that I want to check out," he told her. "And I found this on the giant while you were...recovering." He held up an oval shaped stone, which glowed a peaceful blue. It was encapsulated in a filigreed cage of hammered gold, and Serana gasped at its beauty.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I have no idea," Marcus admitted, "but my keen wolfen eyes saw something over here that I think it goes to." He led the way up a path which climbed the bluff on this side of the river, but picked his way carefully across the rocks and down what appeared to be little more than a deer trail to a ruin of stones by the water's edge.

Standing in front of the two broken columns, Marcus and Serana searched the area for some kind of door.

"There's nothing here," Serana pointed out, "unless you count this pedestal here. Looks like something's supposed to go in it."

"And that hole is just the right size to fit this," Marcus agreed, placing the blue stone in the well.

Immediately, light shimmered between the columns and the two stepped back.

"What is it?" Serana asked again.

Marcus shrugged. "It looks like another portal of some kind. The ancient Snow Elves had a grasp of magic that rivalled the Dwemer, if my reading has taught me anything. This probably leads to another place in the valley."

"Should we step through?" Serana inquired nervously. "What if we can't come back?"

There was that, Marcus had to admit. "I'll go first," he said. "I'll try to come right back out. Don't move or touch anything, okay?"

Serana nodded and waited while he stepped through the portal. In a moment, he was back, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"It looks like some kind of room inside the Chantry itself," Marcus said, gesturing for her to follow him. "But we can't get through this way. There's been a collapse."

Sure enough, when they stepped back through, it was clear there had been some sort of cave-in that sealed this room off from the rest of the Chantry. They found a chest at the far end of the room containing some gems and gold, with other gems scattered across a ledge and the floor. Marcus scooped them all up and pocketed them. There was a set of Elven armor, as well, and Serana admitted she wouldn't mind trying it on for size. Marcus dutifully stepped back out through the portal to give her some privacy while she changed.

When she emerged a few minutes later he smiled. "No one will mistake you for an elf," he grinned, "but it should protect you better than the armor you were wearing."

"It's too bad you didn't have anything back at Breezehome for me," Serana agreed. "I could have used something like this before now."

"I'm afraid I tend to wear heavier armor," Marcus apologized. "I don't have any light-weight stuff around. Tamsyn usually summons a spell to protect her when she needs it. She says she doesn't like wearing armor."

"I don't mind this," Serana said, admiring as much of herself as she could see. "It feels very comfortable and easy to wear. And the bow and arrows are nice, too," she added.

"Here," he said, giving her some of his ebony arrows. "Save the elven ones as a last resort. These will do more damage if you hit."

"' _If'_ I hit?" Serana spouted. "What do you mean, _'if'_?"

Marcus grinned. "Even I miss every now and then," he said. "Come on. We still have two Wayshrines to find." He started up the path once more, with Serana following behind him, still muttering, _"'If!'_ I can't believe he said ' _if!'"_

The trail they followed this time led them up and around the bluff surrounding the lake, giving them a breathtaking view of most of the valley. Ahead of them in the late afternoon sun, they could see a chasm extending for several miles, disappearing into the haziness of distance to the northwest. This chasm emptied into the lake, and expanding across this canyon was a natural stone bridge that would take them to the other side. At the far end of a clearing they could see another dome.

"There it is!" Serana exclaimed excitedly, immediately elevated out of her funk by the sight of the fourth Wayshrine they needed to find. This one, the ghostly image of Prelate Nirilor told them, was the Wayshrine of Resolution.

" _Are you prepared to honor the mantras of Auri-El and fill your vessel with His enlightenment?"_ he asked Marcus. The Dragonborn agreed that he was, and the Prelate smiled. _"Then go forth, child. May the enrichment of Auri-El strengthen your resolve as you undertake your journey to the Inner Sanctum."_

He opened the dome and the shrine rose into view. Marcus filled the Ewer once more. With each successive filling, he became more nervous that he would spill it, or it would break, and it would all be for nothing. Morosely, he mused to himself that he didn't feel much more enlightened than he had at the beginning of this leg of the quest.

"Where to now?" Serana asked. "The sun will be behind those mountains soon."

"And there's no place to sleep safely around here," Marcus rumbled. "We keep going."

"Did you want to check out the Word Wall at the lake?"

"Might as well, before we push on," Marcus agreed. "I don't know how much further we have to go, and we might not come back this way. Let's go."

Most of the lake was frozen with a thick layer of ice that looked as though it had been there from Day One. Marcus and Serana easily crossed the icy surface, slipping a bit here and there as they went. Marcus could hear the thrumming of the chant from several yards away, and moved quickly towards it, eager to discover what new Word of Power he might find there, but a trembling of the ice underfoot sent his early-warning system into overdrive.

"Get to the island, quickly!" he yelled to Serana, pushing her ahead of him, just as a dragon burst through the frozen surface a few yards away with a _crack_ that echoed repeatedly off the surrounding mountains.

"A dragon?" Serana yelped in disbelief. _"Under_ the ice? How is that possible?"

"I don't know," Marcus called above the chanting inside his head, "but get ready. Here he comes!"

" _Zu'u los Naaslaarum!"_ the dragon roared, spewing fire from his maw. _"Faas dii thu'um!"_

"Naaslaarum, eh?" Marcus growled, as much to himself as to anyone present. "Well I've got a few Shouts of my own, Naaslaarum. I'm not afraid of yours. Bring it!" He gathered his vital essence and sent Unrelenting Force after his foe, and to Marcus' satisfaction, the dragon _did_ flinch. But Naaslaarum was old, one of the more ancient dragons Marcus had ever seen, and was more than capable of withstanding a Shout from a mere _joor_.

For his part, Naaslaarum wheeled around in the air and hovered out over the lake.

" _Voslaarum, dii zeymah!"_ he shouted at the lake. _"Alok vok ahrk frey zey!"_

"Uh oh," Marcus frowned.

"What did he say?" Serana demanded.

"He's bringing his brother into this," Marcus warned, as the ice thundered again and another dragon as ancient as the first burst into the skies, streaming frost behind it.

"How can we fight two of them?" Serana yelled.

"I'm working on it!" Marcus called back, firing off two arrows in quick succession. Serana recollected herself and began shooting ice spikes at one of the dragons that bounced harmlessly off its thick hide.

"Wrong dragon!" Marcus shouted. "Hit the other one with ice! Hit that one with fire!"

"They both look alike to me!" the vampire girl protested, twisting her head around to try and keep track where both dragons were. This proved more difficult than it sounded, with the setting sun glaring in their eyes, and the dragons twisting around each other to confuse their foes. In addition, one or the other would dive back under the ice and come up in a different spot moments later. The surface was cracked and pitted with the entrance and exit holes. It would make returning to the shore more precarious, and Marcus didn't trust its stability enough to move out onto the ice where he could see both dragons more clearly.

Flames erupted seemingly out of nowhere as Naaslaarum did a strafing run, roasting the two where they stood. Serana shrieked.

"Here!" Marcus gasped, ripping his ring off his finger and handing it to her. "You need this more than me."

Serana didn't protest, but slipped the fire protection ring on her finger. It didn't ease the pain she was already under, but it helped when Naaslaarum landed on the Word Wall above their heads and belched out another column of flames.

"Gah!" Marcus gasped. Without the ring, the fire hurt a lot more than he was used to. Frantically, he dug into his pack for the resist potions. Serana covered him with bolts of electricity aimed at both dragons.

Voslaarum swept in low over the ice, bellowing, _"GAAN LAH HAAS!"_

The wave of the thu'um hit them both, and they staggered, each feeling weaker, drained of strength, health and magicka.

"We need to do something," Serana gasped. "We can't take on two ancient dragons by ourselves!"

"I've got an idea," Marcus said, suddenly remembering something. "Here, drink this quick!" He handed her a fire resistance potion, downing one himself, before facing out over the ice.

" _DUR NEH VIIR!"_ he bellowed.

The other two dragons paused, hovering, in surprise.

" _Drey rok zeyda saag Durnehviir?"_ Voslaarum queried.

Naaslaarum tilted his head in the dragon equivalent of a shrug. _"Zu'u lor rok lost dilon,"_ he rumbled.

A shimmering, warping, rift of light appeared out on the ice, expanding and growing to accommodate the massive form of Durnehviir as he appeared, summoned from the Soul Cairn.

"Ah!" the undead dragon sighed. "The free air of Vus at last! You have summoned me, Qahnaarin, and I have come. As promised, I now teach you the first word of Soul Tearing: _'Rii'…_ the essence of your enemy's life force."

Marcus felt the knowledge of the Word flow into him, but not its deeper meaning. He would need a soul to unlock it. Fortunately, he grinned to himself, there were two unwilling donors nearby. He just needed to convince them they'd be better off dead.

" _Durnehviir!"_ Voslaarum challenged. _"Hei fend ni lost meyz rigir! Zu'u fen krii hei nu!"_

"Voslaarum, you pathetic weakling," Durnehviir rumbled as he launched himself into the air, "you may try, but you will not succeed! _GAAN LAH HAAS!"_

With Durnehviir on their side now the odds had been evened somewhat. Marcus and Serana kept up a barrage of archery and spells, being careful to avoid Durnehviir. For his part, the undead dragon seemed to have a personal vendetta against the two _dovah_ from the lake.

"You two are no match for me," he taunted them. "I cannot be killed. I am already dead!"

Naaslaarum seemed intent on avoiding the decaying dragon, however, and concentrated his attacks on the two figures running in opposite directions along the shore of the tiny outcropping of rock that held the Word Wall. Perching on its ridge, he ignored the lightly armored figure in favor of the one who insultingly wore the bones of his brothers for protection.

" _Hei aal tinvaak voth fin sahkren do dii zeymah, nuz hei los nid dovah,"_ he jeered at the Dragonborn.

"I know enough of your tongue to know how wrong you are," Marcus shot back, letting an arrow fly for emphasis. "Better dragons than you have fallen to my bow and my blade. Just ask Alduin. Oh, that's right…he's _dead!"_

He was quite certain the dragon understood more of the common tongue than he spoke, and was pleased to note the snarl that curled Naaslaarum's upper lip, and how the eyes narrowed in hate.

" _JOOR ZAH FRUL!"_ the Dragonborn Shouted, just for good measure. He never got tired of seeing the panic in a dragon's eyes when Dragonrend hit them. Naaslaarum attempted to claw his way into the air, but the weight of his own mortality dragged him down, and he landed hard on the ice, cracking it alarmingly.

Sluggishly raising his head, Naaslaarum glared at Marcus, who approached with Dragonbane in one hand and Alduin's Bane in the other.

" _Fos lost hei drehlaan?"_ Naaslaarum wailed. _"Fos luh los daar?"_

 _What have you done?_ he wanted to know. _What sorcery is this?_

"The best kind for fighting dragons," Marcus grinned ferally. "The kind that allows me to do this!" He leaped on the dragon's head, nimbly avoiding the razor-sharp teeth that snapped at him, and slashed downward over and over again with his dual-wielded blades.

" _Nid!"_ Naaslaarum keened as he died. _"Zeymah, frey zey! Bormah…"_

Marcus felt only a small measure of regret as Naaslaarum called upon Akatosh with his dying breath. But the body ignited, and the soul poured forth, and Marcus knew everything the dragon had once known. He used the soul immediately to unlock the deeper meaning of _gaan,_ the Word he had learned in Dimhollow Crypt, and in that moment he knew the Shout would enable him to leech away his opponent's strength. It might come in handy very soon.

Quickly looking around, he saw Durnehviir and Serana double-teaming Voslaarum as the dragon was backed against some broken columns on the near shore. Clearly, they had hurt the dragon enough to force him to land, and as he approached, Serana struck the final blow with her fireball staff. Voslaarum shuddered and lay still, his soul pouring forth into Marcus, as he came up to them. He applied the soul to _haas,_ which was the Word he had just learned on the island Wall. It meant 'health', and was part of the Shout both Durnehviir and Voslaarum had used, but without the second Word, Marcus knew he wouldn't be able to use the thu'um as effectively as the dragons had done.

"That is still the strangest thing I've ever seen," Serana commented. "You just sort of light up when that happens."

"It feels pretty good on this end," he grinned back. "Great work there, by the way, Serana, thanks. I'm glad you had my back."

Serana beamed under the praise, and Durnehviir, shook his head, bits of flesh flying off at all angles. Serana edged away as several pieces hit her. "I will use the time I have left to fly the skies of Keizaal once more. My thanks for the summons, Qahnaarin."

"I wish it could be more permanent, Durnehviir," Marcus said wistfully.

"Do not be sad, Dovahkiin," the dragon told him. "I have had many ages to become…accustomed to my situation." With that he gave a mighty heave of his tattered wings and called out a joyous roar as he soared into the darkening sky above them.

But Marcus wasn't satisfied. Calling Durnehviir to Tamriel would only give the dragon a few moments of life before he would be forced to return to the Soul Cairn. He deserved better than that, and Marcus resolved to find a way to make that happen.

* * *

 _[Author's Note: We are not done with the Forgotten Vale yet. Next up, Marcus and Serana confront Vyrthur, and discover the true origins of the prophecy that has brought them to this point. I will update as soon as I can.]_

 _ **Notes on the Dragon Speech:**_

 _ **Zu'u los Naaslaarum! Faas dii thu'um!**_ _-_ I am Naaslaarum! Fear my thu'um!

 _ **Voslaarum, dii zeymah! Alok vok ahrk frey zey!**_ – Voslaarum, my brother! Rise up and aid me!

 _ **DUR NEH VIIR**_ _–_ "Curse-Never-Dying"; Durnehviir, the dragon from the Soul Cairn

 _ **Drey rok zeyda saag Durnehviir?**_ _–_ Did he just say Durnehviir?

 _ **Zu'u lor rok lost dilon.**_ _–_ I thought he was dead.

 _ **Durnehviir! Hei fend ni lost meyz rigir! Zu'u fen krii hei nu!**_ _–_ Durnehviir! You should not have come back! I will kill you now!

 _ **GAAN LAH HAAS**_ _–_ Drain Vitality Shout

 _ **Hei aal tinvaak voth fin sahkren do dii zeymah, nuz hei los nid dovah.**_ – You may speak with the tongue of my brothers, but you are no dragon.

 _ **Nid! Zeymah, frey zey! Bormah…**_ _-_ No! Brother, help me! Father…


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

 _[Author's Note: Apologies for not updating sooner. My immune system took a nose-dive and I'm muddling through walking pneumonia. I have meds, I'm good. Suffice to say, finding energy to do ANYTHING productive has been exhausting. But I finished this chapter and have the rest of the story mapped out. There will probably be one or two more chapters to finish this up. And my daughter and I are already plotting out Book 3, which as of this writing does not yet have a name. Stay tuned! Thanks for reading and reviewing!]_

* * *

Marcus and Serana spent a few hours resting in the Wayshrine of Resolution. It had been a long, trying day and a half since he'd last slept, and Marcus was exhausted. Serana insisted he try to get a few hours of sleep while she kept watch, though to be truthful, very little existed in the Vale that could have bothered them. The dragons were dead, the wildlife stayed away and the Falmer – for reasons of their own – had yet to put in an appearance.

The Word Wall had given him _lah,_ but he had no dragon soul with which to unlock its meaning. He had used Voslaarum's soul to learn _rii,_ the Word Durnehviir had taught him. It would have to wait.

Marcus didn't think he'd be able to sleep on the cold, stone floor of the Wayshrine, but he was asleep in minutes, waking up a few hours later to Serana shaking him. He was instantly alert and on his feet.

"What's going on?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"Nothing," Serana assured him, "but I thought you'd want to get moving again. The sun will be coming up soon."

Indeed, the sun was already up over the eastern mountain ridges. Serana had pulled her hood up closely over her head again, her eyes gleaming from the shade beneath. Marcus still felt groggy and stiff from sleeping on the cold, stone floor, but he forced himself to get up and stretch.

"Not the best place I've ever slept," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "But at least it's not the worst, either. Feel ready to tackle that gorge over there?" he added, nodding towards the chasm to the north. "That looks to be the way we have to go."

"I'm ready if you are. I charged your weapons and my staff while you slept."

"Thanks," Marcus smiled. "I appreciate it." He didn't mention that ever since their visit to the Soul Cairn, he didn't like using soul gems, but he couldn't deny the advantage a fully-charged weapon gave him in combat. It made him feel horrible, not knowing whose soul was in the gem. He might have been consigning a completely innocent person to purgatory for all he knew. There had to be a better way to recharge magical weapons he just couldn't figure out how.

They were underway in less than an hour, after breaking their fast on the trail rations they'd brought with them. As they reached the natural bridge formation over the chasm, Serana turned and looked back over the valley below, shining like a diamond in the early morning dawn.

"I'm no fan of the sun," Serana said quietly, "but I can't deny the Vale looks beautiful in this light."

"Let's hope the Falmer are late-risers," Marcus quipped. "Maybe we can sneak past them without a fight."

Unfortunately, the Falmer were already up and about, and took a dim view of trespassers attempting to cross their territory. Worse, they had more of the poison-spitting chaurus reapers and their equally horrific hunter spawn with them. Marcus had no qualms about harvesting their insect souls for his common and lesser soul gems.

The ramps built by the Falmer crisscrossed the canyon, generally keeping above the level of the river that had cut through the gorge. At strategic points along the way, they had built more of the wicker-woven huts to serve as guard posts as well as living quarters, though there was an entire nest of Falmer deep inside a cave that had been hollowed out of the cliff face centuries ago. Marcus was determined to explore every possible path; he had no idea exactly where the Chantry lay, now that they had discovered four of the Wayshrines. They couldn't take the chance that the fifth one, which would lead them to the Chantry, wasn't buried somewhere deep inside the rocks.

They didn't find the Wayshrine, but Marcus found another of the gold-encrusted gems similar to the blue one he'd found. This one was green, and had been in the possession of another of the frost giants, before being liberated by Serana and Marcus. It was clear it was another portal gem, like the one they'd found earlier.

"I wonder where that one leads to?" Serana mused.

"I don't know," Marcus replied, "but we can't take the time to find out right now; maybe later."

Not far from the giant's lair they found a book similar to the one they'd found in the chest near the Wayshrine of Learning. Bound in the same green leather, embossed with the same gold sun symbol and written in the same strange language, Marcus felt it was more than merely coincidence. Now he was intensely curious to know what lost knowledge the book contained.

It was well past midday when they came to the end of the gorge, and fought the two Falmer sentries posted outside a crevice in the ice wall behind them.

"Do we have to go in there?" Serana asked, dubious.

"I'm afraid so," Marcus sighed. "There's no place left we haven't checked. And it's probably crawling with Falmer, just like this entire, stinking canyon."

"Then the sooner we get through it, the sooner we can find the Bow," Serana said firmly. She deliberately didn't mention they would also have to kill Arch-Curate Vyrthur. There was no point in bringing up the obvious.

The ice cave was really more of a glacial crevice, they discovered. In some places it was open to the sky, and in others it was an ice tunnel through to the next cavern. It was brighter than Darkfall Passage, for which Marcus was grateful. It meant he could snipe the Falmer with his bow without coming close enough to engage them in hand-to-hand combat. The crevice was bitterly cold, though, with winds that bit through the woolen padding under their armor. At times they were forced to wade through freezing water, and Marcus was certain his Imperial ne-ne's would never climb back down out of his throat. It was too reminiscent of the trip he and Tamsyn had made to Septimus Signus' outpost.

As they progressed through the cave, taking every precaution to move silently, Marcus reflected on what he had learned so far of Falmer hierarchy in the last two years.

At the weakest level were the ordinary Falmer. They generally were the front-line fighters and comprised most of the population of a hive. They carried swords or axes, and shields made from the chitin of the chaurus they raised, but usually never wore armor.

The next were the Skulkers and Gloomlurkers. They were the more experienced warriors, and sometimes carried bows made of the same chitin as the melee weapons. They often poisoned their weapons with weak solutions that were not terribly dangerous, unless you found yourself already on the verge of collapse. In those cases, one hit from a poisoned Falmer blade or arrow was enough to take you out. Marcus knew they had lost several troops in Blackreach to the Falmer in that manner, before they had cleaned the place out.

Nightprowlers and Shadowmasters were above the Skulkers and Gloomlurkers, and tended to wear armor and carry heavier weapons. They were fewer in number, and seemed to be the captains on the field. Their poisons were stronger, and they fought fiercely and savagely, defending the hive.

The highest level of Falmer were the Warmongers. There was usually only a handful or so of them in a large hive, and only experienced warriors could stand toe-to-toe against them. They carried heavy weapons and wore heavy armor, all made of chaurus chitin, and their poisons could be deadly.

Then there were the Shamans, the spellcasters, who seemed to be in a special class by themselves. The Shamans were almost always female, though they were not the only mages. Often, an adventurer might come across a Falmer as low-ranking as a Gloomlurker capable of dealing significant damage with ice spells.

Marcus had to admit to himself that he had never yet seen a Falmer child. Did any even exist? The fact that the whole race had devolved into the miserable creatures they had become seemed to indicate that many generations had passed since the betrayal by the Dwarves, yet in all his dealings with them, he had never yet seen a Falmer child.

He had to admit honestly to himself that he had never thought very much about the Falmer before he'd met Gelebor, consigning them in his mind as mindless beasts to be eliminated at all costs. The thought that they might have held onto the remnants of their former civilization was disturbing. It meant they were not as mindless as he chose so comfortably to believe. Still, every contact he had ever had with the Falmer had been a "kill or be killed" situation. The Falmer didn't negotiate.

He could almost hear Akatosh ask him, _Did you try?_

For that, he shifted uncomfortably, he had no satisfactory answer. He squashed the unpleasant thought and concentrated on just getting through the glacial crevice safely. He used his Shouts sparingly, not wanting to call attention to his and Serana's presence unless they had no choice. Though a perverse part of him grinned in satisfaction seeing a Warmonger lose his footing on the slippery ice ledges and take a header several hundred feet down after a successfully timed Unrelenting Force.

The fighting, when they were forced to, was as fierce as it was short. Serana employed the fireball staff at long-range, especially against the chaurus hunters, and Marcus used his bow to pick off the shamans before they could get their spells off, then switched to Alduin's Bane when the Gloomlurkers and Nightprowlers closed in.

At one point, when they fought a nest of them at the top of an icy bluff, a Warmonger struck a blow so hard Marcus felt his arm go numb. Dragonbane fell from nerveless fingers, and he fell back, suddenly on the defensive against the sightless horror bent on eliminating him. He glanced at Serana, but she was too involved in her own fight to come to his aid.

" _FU—"_ Marcus managed to gasp, but the Word was never completed as the Warmonger smashed his chitin shield into the Dragonborn's face. Reeling back and seeing stars, Marcus shook his head to clear it. Something warm trickled down his chin and he tasted his own blood in his mouth. The Falmer certainly seemed to know enough about armor and anatomy to find the weak points, and continued to concentrate his blows at the elbows, knees or unprotected underarms.

Every strike Marcus attempted to make was countered, either by the wickedly curved Falmer blade, or by the chitin shield. His inner wolf was howling to be set free, but Marcus refused to give in to it. He couldn't take the time to change, as he could already feel his strength leaching away from the poison on the Warmonger's blade.

Thinking quickly, he stepped back several paces, and pretended to slip, falling to the ground. Growling with satisfied rage, the Warmonger rushed him, serrated sword poised to strike. Marcus reached up just as the Falmer closed over him and grabbed the creature by the wrist. Pulling up his knees he thrust upward and over his head, flipping the Warmonger over him, and over the edge of the cavern ledge behind him. It screeched for a full ten seconds before it hit bottom. Then it was silent. Marcus stood and peered over, but could see nothing in the gloom below. He hurried to retrieve Dragonbane from where it had skittered across the ice – coming precariously close to going over the edge itself – and rejoined Serana to take out the rest of the nest.

"I saw what you did back there," Serana said when all was quiet once more. "That was a pretty neat trick. I thought you were a goner."

"So did I, for a moment," Marcus admitted. "Nice to know the old reflexes still kick in. Let's keep moving."

The ice caverns eventually gave way to a canyon riddled with Falmer tents and ramps interconnecting high above their heads. There was no sign of a Wayshrine here, so they were forced to push on, through more Falmer, chaurus reapers and hunters.

At length, the canyon led them to another tunnel, and both Marcus and Serana were exhausted from the constant battling with the Falmer and their insectoid companions.

"Do you need to take a break?" he asked Serana solicitously.

"I could use a few minutes," she agreed wearily. In truth, she had remained awake while he had slept, so she had been conscious almost two solid days now. "I don't think I can sleep here, though. I don't feel…safe. No offense meant, of course."

"None taken," he assured her. "I don't blame you. But why didn't you sleep back at the Wayshrine?"

Serana looked embarrassed and wouldn't meet his eyes. "You'll think it's silly," she said, almost shyly.

"No, I won't, tell me," Marcus encouraged.

After a moment's hesitation, the vampire girl admitted, "I didn't want your wife to find out we'd slept together." The words came out in a rush, and if Serana could have blushed, Marcus was certain she would have done so.

Marcus felt the mirth bubble inside him and desperately forced it down. Laughing right now would _not_ be a very gentlemanly thing to do. Carefully schooling his features into a serious mask, he said as gravely as he could manage, "I think that's a very reasonable fear. But Tamsyn would understand that nothing happened between us. I've become very fond of you, Serana, but what I feel is more like what I feel for Blaise or Sofie or my other children. Tamsyn knows how much I love her, and that she's the only one for me. I'll understand if you don't want to sleep here. I wouldn't either. So let's push on, okay?"

He gave her a fatherly smile and turned away before it became a chortle. _No one will ever hear about this from me,_ he promised himself.

The tunnel twisted and turned, but seemed to lead upwards. There were a few traps along the way, set up by the Falmer: deadfall boulders and another enormous, spring-loaded claw. But it was brighter in this tunnel than it had been in Darkfall Passage, and they could see holes in the rock overhead here and there that let in some light.

They emerged from the tunnel into a small canyon filled with more of the rudimentary Falmer huts, but there were none of the Betrayed here. Just beyond the wicker-woven constructions, Marcus and Serana could see the dome of the last Wayshrine. Marcus breathed a sigh of relief.

"We made it!" Serana exclaimed.

"Yeah, and more importantly, so did the Ewer," Marcus grinned. "I'm pretty sure the original Initiates never had this much trouble finding enlightenment. Let's check out these huts here to see if there's anything useful. We could use some extra potions, if there are any. Then we'll get this Ewer filled so we can get into the Chantry proper."

There were indeed a few potions, but they weren't very strong. Still, it was more than they had before. Marcus found a third book written in the sickle-shaped alphabet and put it with the other two, then he and Serena returned to the Wayshrine to fill the Ewer for the fifth and final time. They walked down the causeway across the gorge side by side, with the impressive edifice of the Chantry rising before them on the other side. Marcus stopped to gaze in awe at the imposing structure.

"Wow!" he whispered. "Have you ever seen anything like that?"

"No," Serana admitted. "I didn't even know anything like that existed. It's…beautiful…in an alien sort of way."

The building had a very symmetrical façade, with peaked arches on either side of the grand entrance, supporting the pale gray stone hewn from the rock wall behind it. As they drew closer, he could see the arches were glassed in, and the framework between the panels of glass resembled tree branches. Staircases swept in graceful curves on either side of a large pool dominated by the figure of robed elf, crowned and surmounted with a sun disk held over his head by streaming rays of bronze – the same design of sun disk as the ones on the books Marcus had found. The elf's hands were held out in front of him, holding onto the ends of the rays, tethering and controlling the sun. There was something very familiar about the face; Marcus knew he'd seen that visage before, just not as an elf.

"It's a statue of Auri-El," Serana remarked. "But this is a much older version of him than I remember."

"I don't remember him looking like that, either," Marcus said cryptically. "Come on. Let's see if there's a basin or something up there to pour this water in."

There was, in front of another sun symbol, and as Marcus poured out the preciously-collected water, it drained out of the basin and ran in channels towards a sun symbol carved into the stone walkway that led to the Chantry. The water drained away once more, and for a long moment nothing happened.

"That's it?" Serana demanded, miffed. "We came all this way for nothing?"

"Just wait," Marcus cautioned. "I'm sure we just need to be patient."

As he spoke, the sun symbol began to glow, spreading out from the rays up through the channels that led to the massive front door of the Chantry. There was a sun symbol here, too, centered on the door; it was divided neatly into two yin-yang halves, with the crack between them resting horizontally. As they watched, the symbol began to turn, slowly at first, then picking up speed until it spun in several complete rotations – eight, to be precise. Marcus counted them. Now the crack rested vertically and it separated slightly.

"I guess that means the door is open now," Serana said drily. "After you."

* * *

"Well, it certainly looks like your husband has been here," Sylfaen quipped, regarding the carcass of the huge frostbite spider.

"I'd say it looks like his handiwork," Tamsyn agreed, examining the scorch marks on the arachnid's torso.

"Do you think we'll be able to catch up to him?"

"I don't know," Tamsyn admitted. "He has a full day's head start on us, and he could have gone anywhere in the Vale after leaving the caves. We'll just have to do our best to get through here in one piece. Hopefully the Falmer won't give us any trouble."

"Falmer?" Sylfaen blinked. "Here, in the cave? You didn't say anything about Falmer."

Guilt crashed into Tamsyn. She could have bitten her tongue to take the words back. There were actually several things she hadn't said to the former Thalmor Justiciar.

"I wasn't sure you would still want to come if you knew," she admitted slowly. "It was wrong of me not to tell you. I'm sorry."

Sylfaen considered this. "And are there Falmer where we're going?" she asked.

"Probably," Tamsyn nodded. "Unless Marcus deals with them first."

The Snow Elf gave her a probing look. "You were going to leave me in a Falmer-infested isolated valley with no hope of return, weren't you?"

Again, Tamsyn nodded unhappily. "That was before I got to know you," she admitted. "We don't have to do this now, if you don't want to. If you still want to hide from the Thalmor, I could take you to Blackreach. It's a place Marcus and I have set up to train for a final assault against the Dominion."

Sylfaen appeared not to have heard her. "You were going to abandon me," she said softly, without malice. "I suppose I deserved that. There aren't any Snow Elves in this Vale of yours, either, are there? You made that up, too."

"No!" Tamsyn denied. "I didn't! I might have…stretched the truth a little, but there really are Snow Elves in the Vale. Just…just not as many as I led you to believe."

"How many?" Sylfaen asked, frowning. "A thousand?" At Tamsyn's shake of the head, she pressed, "A hundred?"

Tamsyn shook her head again. "Two," she confessed.

" _TWO?"_ the elf woman spluttered. "You got my hopes up, made me believe I would be reunited with my people and finally escape the Aldmeri Dominion for _two_ Snow Elves?"

"Sylfaen, I'm sorry!" Tamsyn pleaded. "I didn't know we would end up traveling companions—"

"I trusted you!"

"I know, I know," the Arch-Mage murmured miserably.

"No, I don't think you do!" Sylfaen raged. "I've spent thousands of years as a slave, and then in hiding, denying my true self, fearing any little slip that might give myself away. And the one moment I dared to hope I could be free again, it gets snatched away because you…you 'stretched the truth a little.' You've more than stretched it. You've broken it!"

"Now hold on a minute," Tamsyn said, anger replacing her contrition. "I admit I lied to you at first, and you can't know how sorry I am about that now. But be fair – you were planning to invade my mind to learn my secrets and then kill me afterwards. What did you expect me to do? Just lie down and take it?"

Sylfaen opened her mouth to reply, but closed it again. The truth was too painfully obvious. "No," she relented. "No, I suppose in your place, I would have done the same. But what now? These two Snow Elves you say live in this Vale. How do you know anything about them?"

"My Daddy told me," Tamsyn said quickly. "One is a Knight-Paladin of the Chantry. The other is his brother, the Arch-Curate. But there's a problem."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Tamsyn went on hurriedly. "The Arch-Curate is a vampire. Gelebor, the Knight-Paladin, doesn't know this. And if my husband and that vampire girl he's traveling with are doing what I think they're doing, they're looking for Auriel's Bow. And that means they're going to have to kill Vyrthur, the Arch-Curate to get it."

Sylfaen gasped. "Auriel's Bow?" she whispered. "Not the weapon of the Aedra Himself?"

"The very same," Tamsyn confirmed.

"But why?"

"It's a long story," Tamsyn said. "I'll explain along the way. Right now, we need to get safely down this chasm. There's a river at the bottom that we'll end up in, but it's swift and treacherous. Do you have a spell to breathe underwater?"

Sylfaen nodded.

"Good," the Arch-Mage said. "How much do you weigh?"

"I beg your pardon?" Sylfaen blinked.

"I asked how much you weigh," Tamsyn repeated exasperated. "It was a simple question."

"About a hundred and twenty-five," the Snow Elf answered. "Why?"

"What about your gear?"

"Add another twenty, maybe," Sylfaen said. "I repeat, why?"

"Because I can only carry just so much," the Arch-Mage said cryptically, doing mental arithmetic in her head. "Okay, I think this will work."

"You're not making any sense at all, Tamsyn," Sylfaen complained. "What will work?"

"I'm going to fly us down there, so we don't have to free-fall," Tamsyn said seriously. "But if you've hedged a bit on your weight, it may be more of a slow plummet than a controlled flight."

"You're still not making sense," the former Justiciar glared. "Just how do you intend to 'fly' us down the shaft?"

"Trust me," the Breton girl smiled. "I'm a professional. I've already logged hundreds of hours of flight time."

She concentrated on her Ring of Flying and lifted herself into the air, floating out over the edge of the chasm. Pale blue eyes widened and stared into deep green ones.

"By my Ancestors!" the Snow Elf breathed. "I never would have believed that was possible!"

"Give me your hands and step off," Tamsyn instructed her companion.

"Are you insane?" Sylfaen cried nervously. "We'll be killed for certain!"

"No, we won't," Tamsyn insisted. "Trust me," she said again. "This is the only way we can reach the Wayshrines to get to the Vale. Or, we can go to Blackreach. There are a lot more people there. No Snow Elves, but you would be very welcome there."

"As a curiosity and an informer," Sylfaen said sourly. "They will only want to know what I know about the Dominion. And if one of them should be captured and tortured, it wouldn't take long for the Thalmor to find me again. No, thank you. I'll take my chances with the Falmer and a vampire Arch-Curate." She took a deep breath and grabbed Tamsyn's hands, stepping off the edge of the precipice.

The sudden weight jerked them both down and Sylfaen gasped in horror, but to her credit, she didn't cry out. Tamsyn threw every bit of concentration she had into the Ring, pulling against gravity to slow their fall. It worked – somewhat. They hit the water softer than would have been expected, but were swiftly carried along with the rushing current. Tamsyn felt Sylfaen's hands ripped from hers despite her efforts to hold on. A flare of light from somewhere ahead of her told her, however, that the Snow Elf had managed to throw off a Candlelight spell to illuminate their passage. It helped to prepare them, at least, for the places where the water submerged under the rocks.

At length, they found themselves washed up on the same sandbar as Serana and Marcus, and found the bodies of the spiders left behind.

"Clearly your husband has been here, too," Sylfaen said with a half-smile. "Which way do we go from here?"

Tamsyn led the way, through the tunnels, past bodies and traps that had been sprung, into the final chamber where the first Wayshrine still sat, open and empty. Gelebor, Tamsyn noted, was nowhere to be seen, which meant he had already left for the Chantry itself. It also meant that Marcus and Serana were close to the end of their quest to find Auriel's Bow.

"A Wayshrine!" Sylfaen exclaimed, a genuine smile spreading across her aristocratic features. "I remember my brother traveling the Initiate's path to speak with the Arch-Curate. It was a different Chantry, of course, and a different Arch-Curate. It was a long…long time ago…" Her voice broke, and she turned away from her companion.

Tamsyn stepped a few paces away to allow the elf woman time with her memories. She went over to the basin in the center of the shrine. It was dry, as she expected. One wall was opened, like a window to another world, and the inky blackness of Darkfall Passage beyond it was revealed.

She put her hand up to it, but found it as solid as glass.

"Huh?" she frowned. "That can't be right." She pushed again, harder, but the wall didn't give.

"What's the problem?" Sylfaen asked, coming up to her. The Snow Elf's voice was under control once more.

"We're supposed to be able to walk through this wall to the tunnels beyond," Tamsyn explained. "But I can't get through."

"You're not an Initiate," Sylfaen said, as if that explained everything.

"That shouldn't make a difference," Tamsyn insisted. "Marcus isn't an Initiate, and he was able to pass through."

"He must have had a Ewer with him, then," Sylfaen surmised.

Tamsyn felt her heart sink. "Then we're stuck here," she said, dispirited. "We can't go back the way we came, and we can't move forward."

"Perhaps not," Sylfaen said. "When the Knight-Paladin returns, we could petition him to give us another Ewer and make the trip ourselves."

Tamsyn shook her head. "I don't think Gelebor comes back here," she said morosely. "Once the Chantry is liberated of the Falmer, he stays there. I have that on good authority."

For the first time, Sylfaen looked concerned. "You really mean we may be trapped here until we die?"

"No," Tamsyn said. "I'm sure we might be able to clear that rockfall back there and work our way out, but it would take time. And I'm not sure we have enough food to last that long."

"I have no intention of dying here," Sylfaen said stubbornly. "There has to be another way. We just need to think this through."

The two women paced the cavern, each lost in their own thoughts. Tamsyn knew that if Marcus headed home, Lydia would tell him where she'd gone, and come back to look for her – _if_ he went home right after getting the Bow. There was every possibility that he and Serana would head to the Rift, to Fort Dawnguard. In that case, she and Sylfaen could very well die of hunger before they were found.

"Tamsyn! Look!" Sylfaen called excitedly. Her voice came from around the back of the Wayshrine, and the Arch-Mage hurried over.

"What is it?" she asked. "Did you come up with an idea to get us out of here?"

"I think so," the Snow Elf said proudly. "Look what I found!" She held up a Ewer. It was cracked and pitted with age, and some of the decorations had fallen off. It also lacked a handle, which had broken off sometime in the past, but it was unmistakably a former ceremonial ewer.

"Do you think it will work?" Tamsyn breathed, scarcely daring to hope.

Sylfaen shrugged. "We'd be stupid not to try. I think I still remember the mantras. I had to help my brother Vyndarion memorize them for his journey."

They returned to the front of the Wayshrine and Sylfaen held the broken Ewer reverently in her hands, as though it were a priceless artifact. She closed her eyes to concentrate, then began speaking in a language Tamsyn did not recognize. It was part speech, part song. The words melded fluidly together, and Tamsyn resolved then and there to convince the Snow Elf to teach her this beautiful language.

For several long minutes, Sylfaen chanted, her voice clear and strong, unfaltering. Then, as she spoke the final syllables, the image of Darkfall Passage on the wall of the Wayshrine shimmered, and – almost as if hypnotized – Sylfaen stepped through the wall. Tamsyn hurried to follow in her wake.

* * *

"Geez, it's freezing in here!" Marcus exclaimed, his breath hanging frostily in the air. "I thought it was cold _outside!"_

"Look at this place!" Serana exclaimed, gazing around. "What happened here?"

"It looks like a last stand," Marcus said grimly. Skeletal remains lay everywhere, and several blocks of marble had fallen in from the ceiling high overhead exposing the open sky above. No wonder it was cold in here! There were stone columns surrounding a central raised dais, surmounted by sun-symbolled Shrine to Auri-El Himself. A couple of the squared columns were either cracked or completely hewn through. Marcus wondered what kind of power could have done such a thing.

The more curious detail about the room, however, were the figures of Falmer and chaurus reapers frozen in solid blocks of ice, perfectly preserved for millennia. All were facing in towards the Shrine, as though in the final moments of their attack on Auri-El's Shrine, he had smote them with a blast of super-cold ice, frozen for all eternity. Some even still held battle items at the ready. One held a potion bottle, another held a staff, and a third gripped a necklace in its icy clawed hand.

"Hey, look! Another staff!" Serana chirped happily. "I wonder what this one does?"

"Serana," Marcus warned, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, "I don't think that's a good—"

 _CRACK!_

The ice sculpture exploded as Serana grabbed the staff from its hand, and the Falmer within stood there, pale and cold, sniffing the air. Sensing motion nearby, it homed in on Serana and lashed out with an Ice Spike spell, catching the vampire girl in the leg. She staggered and struggled to stay upright.

"Serana!" Marcus cried, brushing past the chaurus sculpture to get to her.

 _CRACK!_

"Oh, crap!" Marcus bit out, as the disgusting creature spewed its poison at him.

"These creatures are still _alive?"_ Serana demanded incredulously.

"Don't ask me how!" Marcus yelled back, keeping the chaurus reaper at bay with his blades. "I have no clue!"

"Do we kill them all?" the vampire girl asked, worried.

"We'd better," Marcus gritted out, smashing the chaurus into the floor, "if we don't want them sneaking up behind us." The chaurus lay twitching for several seconds before lying still. Marcus flanked the Falmer Serana was fighting and together they made short work of it.

"So how do we do that?" Serana asked, when all was still.

"Touching them seems to be the key," Marcus observed. "You took that staff and it woke up. I brushed against the chaurus to help you, and it broke free."

"Couldn't we just leave them alone then?"

Marcus considered this. "We could," he said finally, "but something in my gut tells me that would be a bad idea. You never leave a potential enemy behind you. That's one of the things I learned from General Tullius. He's had many years and many successful campaigns, and is a brilliant strategist. We don't know if we'll end up triggering something up ahead that wakes all of these up. I'd rather not have that worry on my mind. My wife, Tamsyn has a simpler way of putting it: 'fight them now or fight them later.' I prefer to fight them now."

Serana nodded, and they systematically circled the room, touching each statue and waiting to see if it would awake or not. Not all of them did; the ones that did usually held some kind of item in their hands. These were tucked carefully away in their packs.

When they were certain there were no more threats, they continued through the open archway into the next room. There were more 'ice sculptures' here, and they dealt with the ones that were only sham. The room beyond this chamber seemed to have been a gathering place, and they found skeletons here. The story here was heart-breakingly clear. These were some of the last gathered remnants of the priests of Auri-El who had come here to make a last stand against the Falmer. A few of the skeletons were by the windows, as if they had died trying to get one open to escape. Marcus and Serana did not linger long in the depressing area.

There was one more large chamber of frozen Falmer and their pets just beyond, and it took quite a while to clear it. When it was silent once more, Marcus and Serana rested briefly while she rounded up the items the creatures had been holding.

"If I'm not mistaken," she said, handing him a circlet, "this has a waterbreathing enchantment on it. Did you want it? I don't need it."

"I won't leave it behind," Marcus grinned wryly. "Maybe Tamsyn would like it. It's rather nice, actually."

"Can she enchant items with that ability?" Serana asked. "Waterbreathing, I mean?"

Marcus frowned. "I'm not sure. There's a lot about my wife I don't know. She's certainly a powerful mage, but I don't know all the things she can do."

Serana was silent for several moments before she asked tentatively, "Do you…do you think she'd like me?"

"I don't see why not," Marcus smiled, "there's a lot about you to like." Privately, however, he wondered what Tamsyn would think of Serana if she ever actually met the girl. It wasn't like interacting with a scripted character in a game. Serana was a real person with real feelings and motivations. And he had seen for himself just how dangerous a creature she could become. Still, under the layers of the night creature she had become, Serana was still a young girl – no matter how many centuries she had existed; and that young girl was looking for approval, and for a place she could fit in.

"Have you given any thought as to what you'll do when this is all over?" Marcus asked her now.

"Go back to Volkihar, I suppose," Serana said, without much enthusiasm. "I mean, you said we'd bring Mother back."

"That's a promise I intend to keep," Marcus said firmly, rewarded with a smile from his companion.

"I guess I just never thought very far ahead about it," Serana admitted. "I couldn't have imagined we'd have come this far. If I don't go back to Volkihar, I don't know where I'd go. Not too many places would be happy about a vampire taking up residence."

"There's always Blackreach," Marcus suggested. "We could use your expertise there."

"I think you'd have a hard time convincing any of your friends there that I would be more of an asset than a liability," Serana said sourly.

Marcus said nothing. It was true, of course. Tullius would absolutely be against it, and even Balgruuf would be hard-pressed to accept a vampire among them. If Serana decided to seek a cure for her vampirism, it wouldn't be an issue, but Marcus didn't think now was the time to broach that subject. Serana had to come to that decision on her own. All he could do would be to show her the advantages to giving it up.

"I wonder," he said thoughtfully. "I wonder if you wouldn't mind accompanying me when I get cured of my lycanthropy?"

"You're going to give it up?" Serana asked. "Why? You're so much more powerful as a werewolf than you would be without it."

"I'm also the plaything of a Daedric Prince," Marcus grimaced. "I prefer to answer to Akatosh rather than Hircine."

Serana nodded. "I guess I can understand that. Why would I need to come along?"

"Because I have a feeling Hircine's not going to give me up without a fight," Marcus said, and told her about curing Sinding and freeing Kodlak Whitemane's spirit.

"Sounds like it was a tough fight," Serana acknowledged. "Sure, I'll come along if you really want me to." She stood up, a smile on her face, reassured she would still be welcomed and wanted. "Ready to go? I think we may be close."

"I think you're right," Marcus answered. "Let's be careful, okay? Somehow I don't think everything here is what it appears to be."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't think Vyrthur is going to come along nicely and apologize to his brother for being a jerk," Marcus growled. "Something here just doesn't feel…right."

"I wish we didn't have to do this," the vampire girl said unhappily.

"Me either," Marcus agreed. "Come on. There's a tunnel over there. That must be the way to Vyrthur."

There was a ledge at the end of the tunnel, and Marcus jumped lightly down, turning back to help Serana before they crept through an ice crevice that opened into a hallway of worked stone. About thirty feet beyond, they could see a large, open chamber drifted with ice and snow. Two stone colonnades, similar to those they had seen in the entry chamber, flanked a raised mezzanine at the far end of the gallery. Steps led up the mezzanine to a throne where a figure sat, ghostly pale and immovable. Spikes of ice surrounded the throne, and a frosty haze filled the air. A shaft of sunlight from somewhere above, diffused by a thick layer of ice, illuminated the area, and Marcus noticed at least two dozen of the frozen Falmer and chaurus reapers. He didn't like the odds.

"So," the figure at the end of the hall oozed. "Did you really come here expecting to claim Auriel's Bow? You've done exactly as I predicted, and you've brought your fetching companion to me. Which – I'm sorry to say – means your usefulness is at an end."

"Wait," Serana blinked. "Is he talking about _me?"_

Vyrthur stood then and made a gesture with his hand. At least a dozen chaurus reapers broke free of their ice prisons and advanced on the Dragonborn and the vampire girl.

Marcus realized at once that he would have no chance against the sheer numbers Vyrthur was prepared to launch against them. Protecting Serana was his top priority.

"Sorry, little missy," he said swiftly as the enemy closed. "I'm afraid I have to do this." He took a deep breath and allowed himself to transform.

His inner wolf howled at finally being freed, and tore into the ranks of chaurus that approached. Serana leveled the fireball staff at the other side of the chamber, away from him and used her lightning spells to hinder and harm where she could. The chittering sounds of the chaurus, combined with the explosions of fireballs, the _vrapping_ sound of the lightning blasts and Marcus' own growling filled the Sanctum with a cacophony of deafening proportions. Vyrthur sat, immobile, watching the proceedings, protected from attack by his ring of protective ice spikes.

The corrosive poison of the chaurus stung and burned, and Marcus had the feeling he was going to lose some hide from this. He hated the taste of the insectoid horrors, as well, but devoured what passed for their hearts anyway to sustain himself as he plowed through the ranks, desperately trying to keep their attention focused on him. Staying in front of Serana to protect her as much as he was able, he was grateful for the added strength the beastform gave him as he smashed the gigantic, beetle-like creatures to one side, or ripped them apart with his bare paws. That didn't mean it didn't hurt, and when silence fell again he was breathing hard.

"An impressive display, puppy," Vyrthur drawled, "but a wasted effort. You delay nothing but your own deaths!"

The floor trembled beneath their feet as half the Falmer statues were forced to awaken. In addition, Vyrthur made another curious gesture with his hand and only Marcus' quick reflexes saved Serana from being smashed into the floor as part of the ceiling collapsed. The sun now streamed in brightly, making the vampire girl wince.

"Finish them!" Vyrthur ordered, and there was no more time.

"Hang in there, Serana!" Marcus growled, launching himself at the closest Falmer. He quickly lost track, however, of exactly _where_ they all were. He could only trust that Serana had his back as he crunched, swiped, savaged and clawed his way through the enemies that crowded him. It seemed they had ganged up on him to overwhelm him by sheer numbers. It might have worked, except Serana had backed into the corridor from which they had come and was picking off individual Falmer with her ice spikes and lightning bolts.

"There are no bodies to be raised!" she lamented loudly. "They just break apart into ice chunks when they die!"

Marcus heard Vyrthur give a smug chuckle under his breath. Whatever he had done to the Betrayed, to preserve them in ice for ages, he had clearly built this safeguard in. It was almost as if he anticipated a final battle against a vampire or necromancer.

When he cleared his immediate vicinity of Falmer, Marcus attempted to breach the ice spikes surrounding the Arch-Curate, but they were too strong. At this close range, however, he smelled something very familiar, and realization dawned.

Vyrthur seemed to know his secret had been compromised. He stood and made another gesture. "This has gone on long enough!" he declared. A warping sound behind him made Marcus turn around. A frost atronach stepped through a portal at the same time as the rest of the Falmer statues came back to life. Marcus realized with dismay that there was now the length of the gallery – as well as a dozen Falmer and an angry atronach – between him and Serana. Growling viciously at Vyrthur, he wheeled and sprinted back to her, smashing elf-sicles on the way. The frost atronach, though slow, was still powerful, and Marcus carefully dodged its blows before attempting to close with it.

Unfortunately, the hoarfrost of which the creature was made defied his attempts to crush it. Bits and chips of ice flew off, but Marcus could tell he wasn't doing enough damage.

"I've got the atronach," Serana called, hefting the fireball staff. "Lead the Falmer away."

"Right," he barked, feinting at the cluster nearest them before drawing them further down the chamber. Heat washed over him as fireballs exploded from behind, catching a few of the Falmer in its wake.

"You cannot defeat me!" the Arch-Curate called. "The conclusion here is inevitable!"

"Don't count on that, Vyrthur!" Serana shot back. "Your life ends here, today!"

"Child," the Snow Elf sneered, "my life ended long before you were born!"

Marcus knew the truth of that statement, even if Serana didn't yet. But he had no time to alert her, or contemplate the ramifications. There were Falmer out for blood – _his_ blood – and he desperately wanted to keep as much of that _inside_ his body as he could.

He crushed the spine of the last Falmer just as a final blast from the fireball staff reduced the atronach to a puddle of goo mixed with frost salts. Had Tamsyn been here, Marcus thought fondly for a fleeting instant, she would have stopped to gather up what ingredients she could.

"No!" Vyrthur shouted. "I won't let you ruin centuries of preparations…"

"Hand over the Bow, Vyrthur!" Serana demanded, advancing on him, staff at the ready.

Vyrthur glared at her, gleaming pale white in the beam of sunlight that shafted down upon them. "Death first!" he intoned. He made a curt gesture with one hand, and the entire chamber began to shake.

"Serana, watch out!" Marcus cried, leaping for the girl and throwing himself over her. Masonry crashed down around them as the ceiling collapsed completely. Marcus did his best to protect Serana, and for a moment thought they had escaped harm. But a block of marble the size of a beach ball hit him squarely on his back, bringing with it the blissful escape of unconsciousness.

* * *

"I thought you said these tunnels would be dangerous," Sylfaen remarked as they made their way through another Falmer hive.

"Well, they would have been, if someone hadn't cleared them out beforehand," Tamsyn said drily.

"That someone being your husband, I take it?"

"He's a one-man wrecking crew," Tamsyn grinned fondly. "We're making good time, though. We might even catch up to them soon. I notice he didn't take the gleamblossoms with him, though," she added, picking what she could find.

"I've never seen those before," Sylfaen said, coming over to examine them. "Do they have alchemical properties?"

"Of course!" Tamsyn grinned. "But Daddy told me they had another more important use."

"Are you going to share with the class?" the Snow Elf asked archly.

"Yes," Tamsyn assured her, "but not right now. We need to keep moving."

As they continued on, Sylfaen muttered, "I don't think I'll ever get used to that."

"Used to what?" Tamsyn asked.

"You, referring to the god of magic as 'Daddy'."

Tamsyn chuckled.

They emerged from the passage at the top of the ridge where Serana and Marcus had been not long before. Sylfaen gazed down into the valley in rapture.

"There are worse places to hide away from the Thalmor," she breathed. "Even with only two other Snow Elves here, I think I could be happy."

"I'm sure we'll find other enclaves hidden around Skyrim," Tamsyn assured her. "I won't rest until I find them. For now, let's head this way. If I remember rightly, the Wayshrine of Sight is in this direction."

The ghostly form of Prelate Athring greeted them, but did not interact with them other than to bid Sylfaen, as an Initiate, to fill her Ewer, as he had done for Marcus previously. From here they proceeded to the Wayshrine of Learning, finding the desiccated corpses of the frostbite spiders along the way.

Tamsyn paused at the chest halfway down the hillside, but was clearly disappointed.

"What's the matter?" Sylfaen asked.

"There was supposed to be a book here, written in the ancient Falmer language," Tamsyn explained. "I guess Marcus picked it up. I hope he did, anyway. I was hoping to show it to you."

"I haven't read my own people's writing for an age or two," Sylfaen said soberly. "I'm sure I could translate it, though."

Very little confronted them in this part of the Vale. There were a few Vale sabre cats that sprang out at them from their hidden lairs, but were little match against two accomplished mages. Tamsyn continued to pick every gleamblossom she could find, and seemed to be leading them all over the Vale, looking for things she seemed to think were there. Sylfaen gave up asking why; it was clear the Arch-Mage had her own agenda going on.

They stopped at the Wayshrine of Learning, so Sylfaen could fill her Ewer again, each time chanting her mantras before doing so. Tamsyn noticed that with each visit to the Wayshrines, an inner calm seemed to come over the Snow Elf, and she grew more quiet, and at peace with herself. She spoke less often, and when she did, there was less of the haughtiness of the Thalmor Justiciar about her.

They found the body of a frost giant that had been brutally savaged. Sylfaen seemed unaffected by the sight, but Tamsyn turned away after confirming the body had been picked clean. As they back-tracked, however, they were suddenly surprised by another of the behemoths bearing down on them. Susceptible to flame spells of any kind, however, it soon succumbed to the two mages. Tamsyn found an ovoid amethyst wrapped in gold filigree on its body.

"A paragon!" Sylfaen exclaimed. "I've heard of these. There must be a portal around here somewhere. They were used to travel the Chantry environs more quickly."

"The portal is back there," Tamsyn pointed out, "across the river from the other dead giant. It should have been holding the emerald paragon, but I guess Marcus already absconded with it."

"I wonder where this amethyst one leads," Sylfaen mused. "It might put us closer to the next Wayshrine."

"No," Tamsyn replied, shaking her head. "It will take us back to Darkfall Grotto, and I don't think either of us wants to go through _that_ ride again!"

"I'll have to take your word for that," the elf woman said. "Which way now?"

Tamsyn led them across the ridge, giving them a clear view of the lake below. Two dragon skeletons lay on the icy surface below.

"Yep," she grinned, pointing. "He's definitely been here."

After stopping at the Wayshrine of Resolution, they turned to head into the canyon that preceded the Glacial Crevice. The sun was already high overhead, and while Tamsyn didn't urge them to go any faster, she nevertheless wanted out of the gorge before they lost the light. There were few Falmer left here. Most had already been taken out by Marcus and Serana before them. At Sylfaen's first sight of her corrupted kin here, however, she faltered, lowering her hands.

"Are you crazy?" Tamsyn shouted at her, lobbing another firebolt towards one of the shamans. "Fight back! They won't hesitate to kill us!"

"No," Sylfaen muttered, a glow suffusing her. "I'm done with killing. No more." She spread her hands wide and channeled her energy into a psychic blast of calm that radiated up and down the canyon. The Falmer in front of them suddenly dropped their weapons and began to creep closer, but with a decidedly submissive posture. They mewled and grunted, pawing at her boots and whining like puppies looking for affection.

Incredulous, Tamsyn stared at the Snow Elf who still glowed with an almost holy aura. "What did you do?" she wondered.

"I…I hardly know…" Sylfaen breathed, bemused. She put out a tentative hand to the Falmer closest to her and laid it on his head. The creature's face relaxed, and an almost blissful expression crossed it. "I just knew I couldn't kill them," she said lamely. "I…pity them."

"You seemed to have made a friend there," Tamsyn remarked, still amazed at the sudden transformation from a hostile enemy to a docile follower. "How long do you think it will last?"

"I don't know," Sylfaen admitted. "As long as we don't offer them harm, I should think…forever?"

Tamsyn smiled. This could only be a good thing. As they stood there, other Falmer came out of hiding, hesitantly, approaching them in non-aggressive postures, holding up their hands to touch Sylfaen's.

"We need to get to the Sanctum," Tamsyn reminded her companion gently.

"Yes," Sylfaen said, almost in a dreamlike state. She seemed almost to be… _listening_ …to the chittering and grunting of the Falmer around them. "The Sanctum…"

As one, the Falmer grew excited and a few of them tugged Sylfaen forward, as if leading her.

"Where are you going?" Tamsyn demanded, the crowd of corrupted Snow Elves flowing around her to follow their ancient kin.

"To the Sanctum," Sylfaen called back. "Isn't that where you said we needed to go? They're going to take us there. Come on!"

She still appeared to glow, and Tamsyn knew enough about magic, and about Aedric influence, to know that some One was helping her companion.

"This was meant to happen," she smiled to herself. "I didn't see it coming, but that's alright by me!"

She followed in the wake of the Snow Elf's entourage.

* * *

How long he lay there, Marcus couldn't tell, but it didn't seem that long. His first awareness was of Serana leaning over him, encouraging him to get up.

"Are you alright?" she asked, worried.

"I think so," Marcus replied groggily. Dust was still settling in the air, so he couldn't have been out for that long. He realized he was human once more.

"Come on," Serana encouraged him. "Vyrthur has escaped to the balcony out there. We've got him!"

"Be careful, Serana," Marcus cautioned as he got to his feet. "He's a cornered animal right now. Those are the most dangerous."

But the vampire girl was already running for the stairs, past Vyrthur's throne. Marcus drew his swords and followed as quickly as he could, still wincing from the pummeling he had taken. Two flights of stairs curved up to the balcony, which appeared to be the limit of the Inner Sanctum. In front of this was the familiar dome of a Wayshrine, but it was closed, still sunken into the floor. Serana headed up the left side staircase, and Marcus took the right, flanking the Arch-Curate, who was doubled over and holding his right shoulder. Clearly, he had not escaped unscathed from his own foolish last act of defiance.

 _Serves him right,_ Marcus thought sourly.

"Enough, Vyrthur," Serana said angrily. "Give us the Bow!"

"How dare you!" Vyrthur simmered. "I was the Arch-Curate of Auri-El, girl. I had the ears of a god!"

Serana scowled. "Until the 'Betrayed' corrupted you. Yes, yes. We've heard this sad story."

For his part, Vyrthur merely sneered. "Gelebor and his kind are easily manipulated fools," he spat. "Look into my eyes, Serana. You tell me what I am."

Serana's eyes flickered to Marcus for a moment before meeting Vyrthur's. "You're…you're a _vampire?"_ she gasped. "But Auriel should have protected you—"

"The moment I was infected by one of my own Initiates," the Arch-Curate raged, "Auri-El turned his back on me. I swore I'd have my revenge, no matter what the cost."

Marcus was stunned. He knew Vyrthur was a vampire. He smelled it on him back in the throne room. But could Vyrthur be right? Did Akatosh – Auri-El, rather – _really_ have cut all ties with his own priest? He wished he could have asked his patron directly, but for the moment, that was impossible.

"You want to take revenge," Serana was asking incredulously, "on a _god?"_

Vyrthur shook his head. "Auri-El himself may be beyond my reach, but his influence on our world wasn't." A cruel smile spread over his face. "All I needed was the blood of a vampire and his own weapon, Auriel's Bow."

Serana's voice faltered. "The blood of a vampire…Auriel's Bow…" She shook her head to clear it. "It…it was _you? You_ created that prophecy?"

Vyrthur smiled smugly. "A prophecy that lacked a single, final ingredient…the blood of a pure vampire. The blood of a Daughter of Coldharbour."

A coldness crept into Serana's voice. "You were waiting…all this time…for someone with my blood to come along." Suddenly enraged, she grabbed Vyrthur by the collar of his armor and picked him up, holding him at least a foot off the ground. Marcus had seldom seen her display her vampiric strength before, and was both impressed and disturbed.

"Well, too bad for you," Serana growled now. "I intend on keeping it! Let's see if your blood has any power to it!" She threw the Arch-Curate from her, but instead of falling to the floor of the balcony, Vyrthur levitated himself long enough to get his feet under him and lightly touched down.

He spoke not a word, but lashed out immediately with spells. Cloaking himself in a swirling cloud of frost, which caused sluggishness every time Marcus attempted to close with him, he sought to drain Serana's life force with one hand at the same time as he directed icy spears at Marcus with the other.

The Dragonborn, however, knew he didn't necessarily have to get close to do damage. Serana kept up her own draining force while shooting Vyrthur with lightning bolts that filled the air with the smell of ozone and raised the hairs on the back of Marcus' neck.

Tapping into his vital essence, and angling to avoid hitting Serana, he roared out his fully voiced fire breath _thu'um,_ forcing Vyrthur to scream with agony and turn to face him. Marcus noted with satisfaction that the frost cloak had been well and truly dispelled.

"You can't stop the inevitable!" Vyrthur growled. "Her blood will be mine!"

"You have to get past me first," Marcus returned, striking out with Alduin's Bane. The dragon bone sword, with its razor-sharp edge, cut a deep gash across the Arch-Curate's forearm as he raised his gauntlet to block the blow. It left a trail of fire in its wake, and Vyrthur winced again. Ignoring Serana for the moment, he concentrated his draining spell as well as the icy spears on the more immediate threat in front of him, and Marcus was grateful once more that his armor didn't completely disappear when he reverted to human form after being a werewolf.

"Centuries of preparation will not fall because of _you,"_ Vyrthur challenged. "I will herald the fall of eternal night!"

"The thing about eternal night," Marcus said conversationally, as he circled the vampire looking for an opening, "is that without the sun, all life on the planet dies. _All. Life._ "

"That is nothing to me!" the Arch-Curate snarled, keeping up the drain on Marcus' life force.

"I'm sure it will mean something when everything dies off and you've got nothing left to feed on," Marcus gritted out. He was feeling weaker, and lashed out with the Akaviri blade, which caught on the pauldron of Vyrthur's armor, sinking in to the width of the blade. It wasn't enough to cause shock damage, however, but Marcus knew it was too soon to Shout again.

"The vampire will live on," Vyrthur declared.

"You don't live now," Marcus shot back. "But you've got to feed on something. I take it you've been using the Falmer up to now?"

"What is that to you?" the Snow Elf demanded.

Marcus saw Serana circling around behind Vyrthur and kept his attention on the man in front of him. "The Falmer need food, too. Kill the sun, you kill the crops the beasts feed on. Kill the beasts, and the Falmer got nothing to eat. Eventually, as you point out, there will only be vampires left in Tamriel…and then what? Do you start feeding on each other? How long can you keep that up?"

"Let twilight fall and blood spill," Vyrthur frothed. "Your existence is meaningless!"

"But mine isn't!" Serana declared, stabbing Vyrthur from behind with her glass sword. The point of it shoved completely through the vampire's body, cleaving through the armor, and Vyrthur shuddered.

"No!" he gasped, clutching feebly at the green blade that had sprouted from his chest. "The prophecy….Auri-El…forgive me…."

The light went out of his red eyes as they closed for the final time. He slumped forward, and Marcus caught him as he fell, setting him on the ground. He took a deep, unsteady breath. He felt very weak, and fumbled in his belt pouch for a cure disease potion, just to be on the safe side.

"Thanks, little missy," he grinned when he finished it. "You did good!"

"I can't believe he did all this just to get to me," she said crossly. "Well, I mean, to get to a Daughter of Coldharbour. Just to get revenge on a god!"

Yes, there was that, Marcus mused to himself. At his first opportunity, he intended to speak to Akatosh about that.

The ground under their feet rumbled, and the dome of the Wayshrine lifted itself into the air. Gelebor stepped out and waited for them below. As they approached, he gave a long, sad sigh.

"So, the deed is done, then?" he asked hollowly.

"Yes," Marcus replied.

Gelebor nodded. "The restoration of this Wayshrine means that Vyrthur must be dead, and the Betrayed no longer have control over him."

"Ah, yeah, about that," Marcus began. "It turns out that the Betrayed never corrupted Vyrthur in the first place. He was a vampire."

"What?" Gelebor blinked, surprised. "A vampire? I see…" A smile crossed his face. "Deep inside, it brings me joy that the Betrayed weren't to blame for what happened here. Because that means there's still hope that they might one day shed their hatred and learn to believe in Auri-El once again. It's been a long time since I felt that way, and it's been long overdue—"

"Marcus Dragonborn!"

The Dragonborn, the Snow Elf and the vampire all turned at this new voice. Emerging from the tunnel that led back to the Inner Sanctum were two figures. One – to everyone's shock – was a female Snow Elf, uncorrupted by the treachery of the Dwemer. The other was the dearest person in the world to Marcus – his wife and Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, Tamsyn.

She was giving him that Look. He knew that Look. It was a Look that said simultaneously, "I have missed you so much!" and "You are in so much trouble!"

Abashed, Marcus crossed the rubble-strewn area in front of the Wayshrine to stand before her, eyes pleading with her to understand. "Tamsyn, my love," he began hesitantly, "I can explain..." It seemed thoroughly out of character for the _Dovahkiin_ who had brought down Alduin the World-Eater.

She ignored him and took Sylfaen by the hand.

"This is the person I wanted to you meet," she said, approaching a very shocked and speechless Knight-Paladin. "Knight-Paladin Gelebor, this is Sylfaen Telperion. Sylfaen, this is Gelebor."

The fact that the remnants of the holy aura still lingered over Sylfaen wasn't lost on Tamsyn. Somehow they had convinced the Falmer to stay behind in the Inner Sanctum to be introduced later. Now, it was important to the Arch-Mage that the two remaining Snow Elves at least greet each other cordially. She needn't have worried.

"My lady," Gelebor murmured, bowing formally. "Welcome to the Great Chantry of Auri-El. My apologies for its rather…run-down condition. We have…fallen on hard times here."

"No apologies are necessary, Sir Knight," Sylfaen replied, managing to curtsey gracefully in spite of the fact she was wearing travel-stained trousers and an over-sized shirt. "I completely understand. I am the last person to criticize your accomplishments here."

 _She might as well be wearing velvet and lace,_ Tamsyn thought sourly. She turned to Serana and smiled. "Hello, Serana," she said warmly, holding out her hand. "I'm very pleased to finally meet you."

"Uh…you know about me?" the vampire girl blinked nervously.

"Oh yes," Tamsyn said. "I've been to Whiterun recently and Lydia told me _everything,"_ she emphasized, throwing a scowl back at her husband. "If you all would excuse me for a few moments, my _husband_ and I need to talk."

Behind her, the Dragonborn flinched.

She returned to Marcus' side and took him by the elbow. _"Privately,"_ she hissed as she led him back into Vyrthur's ruined throne room.

Once alone, Tamsyn turned on him.

"Marcus Dragonborn, what the hell have you been up to?"

"Tamsyn, I'm sorry," he soothed. "Things just escalated out of control. Vampires attacked Whiterun—"

"I'm not talking about the whole Dawnguard thing," she said furiously. "I had a feeling that was going to happen sooner or later. It's unfortunate that it happened while I was away. I could have guided you, perhaps. No, I'm talking about _our son, Alesan!_ " Her green eyes snapped at him. "How could you allow him to become a _werewolf?"_

There was a long pause as Marcus searched for something to say. He loved this woman. Why did he always turn to jelly when she disapproved? To protest that it wasn't really his fault, that it had been Skjor and Aela's doing, was a specious argument at best. He'd been home. It was his responsibility to look after the children while she was away, just as it was hers when he wasn't home.

In a meek voice, he finally replied, "He got better."

The corner of Tamsyn's mouth struggled to stay down. "That is not the point and you know it!" she gasped, turning away from him. In that moment he knew he was forgiven. She was trying to hide the fact that he had made her laugh.

"And you?" she demanded, turning back now that her features had been schooled back into discipline. "I had a long talk with Alesan. He told me you didn't take the cure. Why not?"

Marcus hung his head. He wasn't completely out of the woods yet.

"I made a bad choice," he admitted. "I thought I might be able to fight Serana's father, Lord Harkon, more effectively if I was a werewolf."

This only seemed to infuriate her. _"You. Are. The. Dragonborn!"_ she practically screeched. Marcus was certain they had to have heard that outside. He put up his hands in submission.

"I know! I know, okay?" he sighed. "Akatosh has already raked me over the coals for that one."

As quickly as he could, he told her of losing contact with his patron, something he sorely regretted. "I spoke with him in the Ancestor Glade, through the Elder Scrolls, and he gave me a pretty good dressing down. I haven't been able to speak to him again ever since. And I won't until I get cured. But he told me to finish what I started here."

"Hmm," Tamsyn murmured, mollified by the knowledge that Marcus truly regretted what he'd done. "I suppose if the Boss has already disciplined you, then anything I say would be rubbing salt in the wound."

"So I'm forgiven?" he dared to ask, hopefully.

"I didn't say that," she sniffed. "We should join the others. We have much to discuss. We'll talk about your…penance…later, when we get home."

Then she threw her arms around him, lifting herself up on her toes to reach his mouth for a long, passionate kiss. He picked her up and held her close, grateful to have this much after missing her for so long. But a pornographic image flitted through his thoughts that he knew didn't come from _his_ imagination, and in the recesses of his mind, he heard Hircine's mocking laughter. He stiffened, and Tamsyn sensed it immediately.

"Problem?" she asked as he set her down tenderly.

"Nothing I can't handle, my love," he smiled, but his eyes were bleak, and she didn't miss that. "Let's go join the others."

Serana was relieved to see Marcus and Tamsyn return. Gelebor and Sylfaen – someone she didn't know – had been talking about things from longer ago than even _she_ could remember, and to give them a sense of privacy as they sat on the steps she had removed herself to the peak of the balcony overlooking the lake.

The Knight-Paladin and the former Justiciar rose as the Dragonborn and the Arch-Mage returned.

"Lady Sylfaen here has told me of what happened in the grotto," Gelebor smiled. "It gives me great hope for the future of our race."

"Something happened?" Marcus asked, bewildered.

"Yeah," Serana grinned. "Apparently all the Betrayed seem to think Sylfaen is their mother now."

"What?"

"It's not exactly like that," the elf woman said, embarrassed. "It was more like 'teacher' than 'mother'. It's difficult to explain, but Gelebor tells me he's noticed a rise in their intellect."

"It's true," Gelebor confirmed. "While they may never return to their former appearance, I believe that if a line of communication could be established, which Lady Sylfaen seems able to do, maybe they can find peace. It's the only way they'll discover that they weren't always malignant. They were once a proud and prosperous race."

He stepped over to the Wayshrine and gestured. "In the meantime, I owe you a great debt of gratitude. Meeting with Lady Sylfaen gives me hope that others of our kind may still have survived to the present day, uncorrupted. You've both—" his glance included Serana and Marcus – "risked everything to get Auri-El's Bow, and in turn, you've restored the Chantry. I can't think of a more deserving champion to carry it than you. If you wish to learn more about the Bow, or obtain Sunhallowed Arrows for it, I'd be more than happy to help. You've but to ask. Please…take the Bow. It's yours."

Marcus approached the Wayshrine and saw, suspended in mid-air, the artifact he and Serana had traveled so far and suffered so much to obtain. He reached out and took the bow, feeling as he did so a sense of peace, and a suppression of Hircine's influence over him. They were one step closer to ending Harkon's madness.

"That's it?" Serana asked skeptically. "It's not as shiny as I thought it would be."

Marcus threw her a sour look. It looked beautiful to him. "What else can you tell me about the Bow?" he asked Gelebor.

The Knight-Paladin smiled. "The Bow was said to be carried by Auri-El himself into battle against the forces of Lorkhan in ancient and mythic times. Its craftsmanship has no equal anywhere within Tamriel and possibly beyond." The Snow Elf gazed reverently at the Bow as he continued. "The Bow draws its power from Aetherius itself, channeling it through the sun. Therefore, when an arrow is loosed from the Bow, it produces a magical effect very similar to being burned by fire. That's actually only a fraction of its potential. With Sunhallowed Arrows, you would be able to produce a much more spectacular effect…causing bursts of sunlight to envelop your foes. The sunbursts would certainly hurt anything, but is especially devastating to the undead."

"Keep it away from me, then," Serana remarked drily, edging away.

"What will you do now, Gelebor?" Marcus asked. "You and the Lady Sylfaen could come back with us." He hated the thought of leaving the two Snow Elves here, alone except for the Falmer – and he still wasn't sure they wouldn't turn on their ancient kin.

"After all the trouble I went through to get here?" Sylfaen blinked. "Not a chance. I've made my journey through the Wayshrines and I feel more at peace now than I have felt in a long, long time. The Falmer won't harm us. I will see to that. I'm staying." She didn't miss the joy that spread over Gelebor's face at this pronouncement.

"Even with Vyrthur gone and the Inner Sanctum destroyed," Gelebor pointed out, "my duty as a Knight-Paladin of Auri-El remains. I've been sworn to protect this Vale and everything it represents until I die. And I could not, in good conscience, abandon the Lady to remain here alone with the degenerates of our broken people."

"What about the Wayshrines?" Tamsyn asked.

"For the time being, they will remain open," Gelebor promised. "If remnants of our kind who escaped the betrayal at the hands of the dwarves exist out there, perhaps they will find this place one day."

"And the Chantry?" Serana asked.

Gelebor gave a profound sigh. "While it would fill me with joy to see the Chantry back to its former glory, that time has long since passed."

"Sylfaen, you should take these," Tamsyn said, handing over the bundle of gleamblossoms she had meticulously gathered. "Distill them down and add these ingredients in the proportions I've listed." She handed the elf woman a piece of parchment on which she had written out instructions.

"When did you do this?" Sylfaen asked, confused.

"Back at Breezehome before we left."

"And why am I doing this?" the former Justiciar asked, still befuddled.

Tamsyn smiled. "It will cure their blindness," she replied. "You won't need much. The instructions are all there. Daddy told me and I wrote it down for you. We just needed the gleamblossoms."

"We should get back to Fort Dawnguard," Serana said anxiously. "It's time to confront my father and put an end to this silly war against humanity of his. But I think we're going to need help. I'm sure we can convince Isran, now that we have Auriel's Bow."

"You can't get back out the way you came in," Tamsyn pointed out. "The bridge over the chasm back in Darkfall Cave is pretty much useless, and I didn't see any way of climbing the sides of the crevice to get out."

"You forget who I am, dear," Marcus grinned. "I'll call for a ride."

Tamsyn chuckled. "I didn't forget," she chided him. "But I know Odahviing has a reluctance to be reduced to the capacity of – how did he put it? – a pack mule."

"Odahviing and I have come to an understanding," Marcus said firmly. "He'll carry whoever I tell him to carry."

Tamsyn's eyes widened in astonishment. "Wow! A breakthrough! I didn't expect that!"

"I thought you were a Seer," Serana quipped.

Tamsyn sighed in frustration. "It doesn't work that way!" she complained, not for the last time.

Marcus chuckled as he went to the balcony to call Odahviing. "Gelebor, I'll be back soon."

"I look forward to it, Dragonborn," the Knight-Paladin smiled. "Please, take these with you." He held out a quiverful of elven arrows, fletched with glowing white feathers.

Marcus hesitated. Elven arrows were nice, but his ebony ones were more powerful.

"Take them, dearest, and say thank you," Tamsyn prompted. "They're Sunhallowed."

"Indeed," Gelebor nodded. "If used with Auriel's Bow, then His holy light will shine upon them, and burn like the light of day."

Serana edged further away.

"Thank you," Marcus said, taking the quiver and attaching it to his belt. "And I promise I'll be back soon when this is over, and let you know what happened."

"We'll bring supplies, too," Tamsyn promised.

Odahviing arrived and landed in the now-open-air courtyard of the Chantry. He ducked his head and lowered his wings to his Thuri and the Prok-Lahzey.

"Where shall I take you, Dovahkiin?" he asked. "Will the _sosnaak_ be coming with us? Three is much to ask of me." There was no rebellion in his tone; he eyed the Dragonborn and his companions with concern.

"I've got my own way of getting home," Tamsyn said, lifting herself into the air with the power of her Ring of Flying.

"By Auri-El's Light!" Gelebor exclaimed, astounded. "I have never seen such a sight before!"

"Now you know why she is the Arch-Mage," Sylfaen smirked.

"Indeed!" was all the Knight-Paladin could say.

Marcus and Serana swiftly climbed aboard, and the great red dragon pulled himself into the sky. Tamsyn positioned herself at his right wingtip.

"I will enjoy this flight with you, Prok-Lahzey," he rumbled. "I have never flown with a joor who could fly as the dovah do."

"You can fly smoke rings around me, Odahviing," Tamsyn praised. "I hope I can keep up."

Tamsyn wheeled around mid-flight to wave at the retreating figures on the balcony. She knew she would be back sooner rather than later. There were still many things she wished to learn from the former Thalmor Justiciar.

 _No,_ she corrected herself. _From Sylfaen, my friend._

The flight back took far less time than the trip to the Chantry. Odahviing dropped them off at Whiterun, and Tamsyn lightly touched down under a spell of invisibility.

"Why are we stopping here?" Serana asked. "I thought we were going to talk to Isran?"

"We are," Marcus assured her, "but I need to talk to Vilkas first."

"Why Vilkas?" Tamsyn asked, stepping into sight from around a corner of the stable.

"Because I think we're going to need more backup than the Dawnguard can provide," Marcus said. "I don't know how many recruits Isran's been able to gather, or how well equipped they are, and I don't want to trust this whole thing to dumb luck. I'd rather have people I know and trust at my back."

"You'll need to hurry, then," Tamsyn urged. "Every moment you're back in the civilized world, Serana's life is in danger. Harkon could have spies anywhere, watching and waiting for you."

"You mean 'we need to hurry,' don't you?" Serana asked. "Aren't you coming with us?"

Tamsyn shook her head. "Make no mistake, while I would love to, someone needs to stay home and watch the kids." She turned to her husband. "I'm actually very proud of you," she murmured. "You went all the way through this with no help from me whatsoever. You're turning into quite the Dragonborn, I must say!" She grinned impishly at him, before turning and leading the way up to and through the city gates.

The children were ecstatic to have both parents home, but their joy was short-lived when their father told them he needed to leave again as soon as possible.

"But you only just got back, Papa!" whined Lucia.

"Hush, sweetheart," Tamsyn soothed, hugging her close. "Papa has something very important to take care of. Hopefully it won't take long, and it will soon be all over and he'll be home for good."

"Really for good?" he asked quietly, for her ears only.

"Shh!" Tamsyn admonished. "For another while, perhaps."

"Just for once I'd like something to be done when I'm done with it," he grumbled.

"Are you going, too, Mama?" Sofie asked quietly.

"No, dearest," Tamsyn assured her. "I'll wait here for your Papa with you."

That seemed to satisfy the Dragonborn's brood, and an early supper was thrown together. Serana declined to partake, but Marcus insisted she 'get something' to tide her over.

"I might have something that will help," Tamsyn said. "Give me a minute." She disappeared downstairs, returning just a few moments later.

"Oh, Marcus?" she purred in a dangerous tone. "Where's my trunk?"

"Upstairs, my love," he assured her. "We had to shift things around when the workmen finished."

Grumbling under her breath about needing a bigger house, she stomped up the stairs and reappeared a few moments later with an enameled red decanter chased in gold. She unstopped it and poured a mug for Serana. Marcus could smell the blood from halfway across the room.

"Where did you get _that?"_ he demanded, suspiciously. There was still so much about Tamsyn he hadn't found out.

"Picked it up somewhere," she said carelessly. "Try this, Serana. I think you'll appreciate its nuances."

Serana's eyes glowed as she took the first sip. "Is this…what I think it is?" she asked carefully, as the children were eyeing her uneasily.

"It's a blend," Tamsyn assured her. "I did a favor for an old man named Septimus Signus, and was required to retrieve a certain amount of each. He…didn't need all of it."

"This is so rich!" Serana grinned, showing the tips of her fangs. "Just a little of this will hold me for quite a while!"

Marcus made a mental note to ask his wife more about this trip to Septimus Signus of which he had not been a part. For now, Serana had her mug, and the rest of the family settled down to a very enjoyable meal.

He and Serana told Lydia and the children as much as they felt was safe about the trip they had been on. Tamsyn revealed little of her trip, saying only that she would tell them more when it was all over. After supper, Marcus went up the hill, first to speak with Jarl Balgruuf at Dragonsreach, then to Jorrvaskr to talk to Vilkas.

"Can it really be true?" Balgruuf asked, clearly alarmed. "Could this vampire lord _really_ succeed in blocking out the sun? That would be disastrous!"

"I've got it under control," Marcus promised, with more confidence than he felt. "We've got Auriel's Bow now," he added, showing it to his Jarl. The Nord ruler's eyes bulged when he saw it.

"The Bow of Akatosh himself!" Balgruuf breathed. "Ysmir's beard! What a mighty weapon that must be!"

"I haven't actually used it yet," Marcus admitted. "So I hope you're right. We'll find out very soon. I'm leaving for the Rift tomorrow to alert the Dawnguard. I'm stopping by Jorrvaskr tonight to let Vilkas know. He made me promise not to go without him," he finished with a lopsided grin.

"Ah, if only I were a younger man!" Balgruuf sighed. "I would gladly stand back-to-back with you to fight these terrors!"

"You may yet get that chance, my friend," Marcus said. "To fight back-to-back with me, that is. When this is over, we need to step up our efforts against the Thalmor. I've got a line on some really _inside_ information. But I have to finish this first."

"Aye, Marcus," Balgruuf nodded, clasping the younger man's wrist. "Go. Take this fight to the damned vampires and wipe them out. We'll show them how a true Nord – or an Imperial, for that matter – protects their own!"

Vilkas was of a similar mind, though not quite as eloquent. "We'll get started out to Icewater Jetty right away, Harbinger," he promised, and with a jolt, Marcus remembered that he had, in fact, taken Kodlak's place within the faction. He only hoped he would do the position justice. Vilkas followed him through the lower levels of the mead hall, banging on an iron pot with a wooden ladle to get everyone's attention.

"Gather upstairs, everyone," he ordered. "The Harbinger wishes to address you all! This means you, too, Torvar. Put the tankard down and move your lazy ass!"

"Alright, alright, I'm goin'," the drunken Companion slurred.

A few minutes later, everyone was seated around the central firepit at the tables where meals were taken at any time of the day or night. Nearly everyone was there, though the absence of Skjor and Kodlak was sorely felt.

"This is what has happened," Marcus began, and gave them the whole story of what had brought him to this point. "Now, I know none of you are required to follow me to Volkihar Keep, but if you do, you'll be protecting your homes, your city, your country, and all those you care about. If you feel you're not up to this kind of mission, don't be afraid to say so now. I'd rather you sit out and live to get more experience than try to prove you can handle it and end up getting killed. There's no shame in staying behind. I want that clearly understood."

"The only shame in staying behind is to end up growing old," Njada scoffed. "I'd rather go out in a blaze of glory than sit behind here and let others take the risk for me!"

There were several murmurs of assent, and Marcus held up his hands. "As I said, you're not required to follow me, but if you choose to, I'll be glad of your company. Just be careful. Bring cure disease potions with you…lots of them. Sofie and Arcadia will make as many as they can. My wife will be helping them. You've got a couple days before you need to get started. It will take at least that long to get the Dawnguard out there from the Rift."

"Don't worry, Harbinger," Vilkas assured him. "I'll see they're well equipped." He paused and grinned. "This will be a tale we will be telling at Jorrvaskr for years to come! There isn't a Companion here who wouldn't want to be a part of it!"

"Even Torvar?" Marcus couldn't help asking quietly. Vilkas chuckled.

"Don't let that drunken lout fool you," the wolf twin grinned. "He fights better when he's three sheets to the wind!"

* * *

Marcus and Serana returned to Fort Dawnguard to find it a buzzing hive of activity. A new stockade wall had been set up around the perimeter of the box canyon where the Fort was located. The high cliffs and sheer bluffs surrounding the castle would deter any normal vampire from attempting to attack from the rear. Marcus wasn't so sure it would stop a pure-blooded Volkihar vampire like Lord Harkon.

Sorine had greeted him cordially and dutifully showed him the latest improvements she had made to the Dawnguard crossbows.

"It's heavier, more powerful, and is faster to reload than the ones Isran started us out on," she said, throwing a suspicious glance at Serana. "Agmaer found some Dwemer schematics for me to help with the design. He even found some information about exploding bolts." Again, she threw a look at Serana, and her meaning was clear. If Serana turned out to be a traitor, the Dawnguard was well prepared to face her father.

Marcus saw Agmaer just beyond Sorine's worktable, practicing with one of the crossbows. He saw Marcus and lifted a hand in greeting, but a closed look came over his face when he saw Serana. Marcus felt his heart drop. No, there was no love for the vampire girl here, even if she _had_ been instrumental in acquiring Auriel's Bow.

Gunmar and Beleval had their heads together as Marcus and Serana had passed them, looking for Isran. He heard Gunmar say, "Just make sure to take him out without being seen. His nature isn't known to the Jarl yet, so if you openly attack him, you're the one the guards will be after, and we'll lose any advantage we might have."

"Problem?" Marcus asked, concerned.

"No problem, Dragonborn," Beleval said. "I've got this. Gunmar's told me of a vampire masquerading as a friend to the court of Jarl Siddgeir in Falkreath. I'm on my way there now to sort it out."

"Be careful," Gunmar said, before returning to his armored trolls. He never even looked at Serana.

Beleval threw a look up and down the girl before leaving without another word, and Marcus wondered if the woman's candid statements had been a not-so-veiled warning.

"Did the temperature drop in here a few degrees?" Serana complained. "You'd think _I_ was the one trying to blot out the sun."

"Guilt by association, I'm afraid," Marcus said sympathetically. "If it's any consolation to you, they haven't exactly warmed up to me, either. Even Sorine has been kinder before now."

"Marcus!" a voice cried out joyfully.

"And then there's Florentius," Marcus allowed with a small smile. "What can I do for you, my friend? How's Arkay these days?"

"Arkay is well…" the former priest grinned, pausing for a heartbeat. "…and he thanks you for asking after him. I must say, things are getting pretty exciting around here. Tilde has found the Rune Axe and Rune Shield, and I'm hoping to send her – what's that?" The priest stopped mid-babble and appeared to be listening to something, or someone.

"Oh, alright, I'll tell him," the priest said in assurance. "Arkay says I should stop holding you up and let you know where you can find Isran. He's in his quarters, upstairs."

"But we didn't even ask," Serana said in confusion.

Florentius grinned. "I know. Catch up with you both later!" he called, waving a hand behind him as he left.

"What a strange man!" Serana mused. "Almost stranger than you, if that's possible."

"I think I'm going to assume that's a compliment," Marcus growled playfully, rewarded when he put a smile on her lips.

They found Isran, where Florentius – or perhaps Arkay – had told them they would find him. He was brooding over a diagram of the entire box canyon, examining his defenses against perceived weaknesses.

Marcus said nothing as they approached, but merely held up Auriel's Bow.

"The Bow!" Isran breathed as he looked up. The soft glow of the artifact lit up the creases and lines in his face and put a fire in his deep brown eyes. "You have Auriel's Bow! I've heard it described in tales, but I could never have imagined its beauty!"

"And don't ask me what it took to get it," Marcus grumbled. "Now we have to strike against Lord Harkon."

"Indeed," Isran agreed. "The day hasn't been won while Harkon still walks Tamriel. But what about Serana here? Can we trust her to lift a blade against her own kind? Her own family?"

Serana looked decidedly unhappy again, and Marcus 's voice was sharper than it might otherwise have been. "Serana has already given up everything she knew to help us," he told the Dawnguard leader severely. "I trust her to do the right thing. She knows what's at stake here."

"Please don't say 'stake'," Serana murmured.

For a moment, the corner of Isran's mouth lifted, as if even he appreciated the irony. But it swiftly disappeared as his features resumed their usual scowl. "Alright then," he relented. "Let me address the Dawnguard before we set out. They deserve to know that we've finally gotten the upper hand."

He led them back downstairs and called out in a voice that boomed through the hall.

"Everyone! Gather round!"

A few murmurs of wonder ran through the place. Marcus could hear the whispers from as far away as Bran and Sceolang's pen, where the dogs must be getting fed.

"Come on then," Isran called, irritably. "We haven't got all day."

When everyone was assembled, Marcus spotted Dexion Evicus hovering at the back of the crowd. That reminded him of something he wanted to take care of before he left Fort Dawnguard for good. This quest had been necessary, but the people here were too dour, with very few exceptions, for him to want to stick around. He forced himself to pay attention, however, because Isran was speaking again.

"For too long we've allowed these vampires to poison the night and kill our people!" he began. Several glowering sets of eyes turned to Serana, who shifted uncomfortably. "Now we finally have the means to strike back! We now have Auriel's Bow!" He held it up for all to see, and the gasps of astonishment from those gathered around was gratifying.

"The gods themselves have favored us, and we must answer with action," Isran continued. "The time has come to finally put an end to Harkon and his unholy prophecy! We will march on their lair and destroy those wretched abominations so they can no longer corrupt our world!"

Marcus wondered briefly if Isran would consider werewolves to be abominations as well. Probably. He tactfully said nothing, but inward he bristled at the Redguard leader's narrow-minded viewpoint. If he didn't need their help, he would have persuaded Serana that they didn't really need to come back here. Unfortunately, that was not the case. He _did_ need their help; but it galled him to listen to Isran's speech. Vigilants, indeed.

"This is our fight," Isran concluded, "and this is our fate! This…is the time of the Dawnguard!"

Cheers and roars of approval broke out among the ranks, and Marcus gently took the Bow back from Isran before working his way around to Dexion.

"Dragonborn!" the Moth Priest greeted him. "It is good to see you again." This was an ironic statement, Marcus felt, because the old priest's eyes were still bound. "Congratulations on finding Auriel's Bow. I knew you could do it."

"Did you really?" Marcus asked, only half in jest. "Because honestly, I wasn't sure I could."

"You have done everything the Scrolls asked you to accomplish," Dexion assured him. "Now it only remains to deliver the final blow to Lord Harkon. I wanted to ask you, though, about the Elder Scrolls—"

"Funny," Marcus said with a smile. "I was going to ask you the same thing. Would you be interested in them? I've already promised one to the Librarian at Winterhold, but I honestly don't want to be responsible for taking care of them."

"Nor should you be," Dexion agreed. "It can be a very dangerous thing to leave an Elder Scroll just lying around for anyone to look at. I would be delighted to negotiate the acquisition of the Scrolls from you."

"They're yours," Marcus said. "I don't want anything in return for them. Consider it my contribution to man's quest for knowledge."

"My goodness!" Dexion said, as his knees gave out and he landed rather heavily and awkwardly on a bench behind him. "I never expected such generosity! My colleges in the Imperial City will be delighted to have them!"

"The two about the Sun and Blood are yours," Marcus smiled. "I'll leave those here in your care. I'll take the one about the Dragons home and give it to my wife. She'll make sure Urag gets it."

"Thank you again, Marcus," Dexion said sincerely. "I never dreamed I would be the caretaker of _two_ Elder Scrolls!"

"Take care, my friend," Marcus said, shaking his hand. "I hope someday to see you again."

He and Serana left Fort Dawnguard to its flurry of preparations and headed back with Odahviing to Whiterun.

"Should I go on ahead to Icewater Jetty?" Serana asked as they touched down.

"Not a good idea," Marcus answered, shaking his head and holding up a hand to help her down. "Tamsyn's right. Your father might have a network of spies all over Tamriel, watching and waiting. We can't afford for anything to happen to you right now."

"Seems like a lot of fuss for nothing," the vampire girl shrugged. "You've got the Bow now. Killing me isn't going to help him if he doesn't have that."

"He won't have to kill you," Marcus explained as they headed into town. "All he'll have to do is hold you hostage until I give him the Bow. If that happens, he'll have us over a barrel."

"Just don't give it to him, then. You heard Isran and the others. What's one less vampire in the world?" She turned morosely towards Breezehome, but Marcus put out his hands and caught her, turning her around.

"Serana," he said gently. "That's not an option. I protect my family and my friends, to the best that I'm able to do. And if that means keeping you safely away from your father until we confront him, then that's what I intend to do."

Hot tears welled up in Serana's eyes, but she brushed them away. "None of this would have happened without that stupid prophecy!" she said in a trembling voice. "Damn Vyrthur! And damn my father for allowing himself to be sucked into it. And damn _both_ my parents for making me a vampire in the first place!"

She broke free and ran to Breezehome, bolting inside and leaving the front door wide open. Marcus ran after her and saw her rushing down the stairs to the lower level where she slept when she stayed here. Tamsyn was looking after her, totally confused.

"Marcus?" she queried in a puzzled voice. "Did something happen? Is Serana alright?"

Quickly he told her of their trip to see Isran, and the reception they had received. He shrugged the Elder Scroll off his back and handed it to her when he mentioned Dexion. He finished with the scene just outside their door.

"And now that poor girl is hurting, wondering if she'll ever find a place where she'll fit in and be accepted," Tamsyn commiserated. "I'll go talk to her."

"No offense, dear," Marcus said, "but she knows me better. Maybe I should—"

"Maybe you should get ready for your trip northwest," Tamsyn insisted. "Trust me, my love, this needs a woman's touch."

Whatever Tamsyn said to Serana in the hour that followed did much to improve the girl's mood. She came up from the basement, smiling tremulously at Marcus.

"So, when did you want to leave for Icewater Jetty?" she asked, as if nothing had happened. Marcus decided to let it pass.

"We can leave now if you wish," he said. "Or we can wait until morning. That, at least, would give Isran and his group a chance to get on their way. It will take them almost two days to get there, anyway, even if they manage to find enough carriages to cram into."

"Then we can leave in the morning, if that's alright," Serana said. "I don't mind waiting until then."

The rest of the day was spent making preparations, and Marcus sent word to Vilkas to go ahead, he and Serana would meet the Companions there. It would be far faster for the two of them, flying on Odahviing.

"And now, wife of mine," Marcus said as he settled into bed next to Tamsyn for the first time in over a month, "will you tell me what went on down in Cyrodiil? We never really had a chance to go over it. What did you learn?"

So she told him, and he recounted everything that had happened since she'd left. They talked long into the night, but neither seemed inclined for anything more passionate than kissing and cuddling.

"You won't get your 'lover's comfort', you know," Tamsyn told him drowsily. "Not until you're cured."

"Is that what they're calling it in Cyrodiil these days?" Marcus demanded playfully. "You're a mean wife to hold out on me like that."

"I'm not holding out," she protested. "I'm tired. And no, that's not what they're calling it in Cyrodiil, you oaf!" She pushed his shoulder in mock outrage. "I just meant you won't feel completely rested until you're cured."

"I know," he acknowledged soberly, all humor set aside. "And honestly, with the images Hircine has been sending me…" He broke off, shuddering. He wouldn't tell her about some of them. Ever. Tamsyn hugged him closer.

"Don't think about it," she soothed. "I'm here. I'll always be here. Once Harkon is defeated you can get yourself cured, and we can get back to what's considered 'normal' for the Dragonborn and his family."

"I wonder what that feels like?" he murmured sleepily, before he nodded off, and the restless dreams of the Wild Hunt returned.

* * *

 _[Author's Note: Is it cliché of me to say I was listening to The Eagles' "Journey of the Sorcerer" as I wrote Tamsyn and Sylfaen's parts? Heh heh heh…_

 _Well, we're getting closer to the end. Marcus and Serana have to gather the troops to launch the final assault against her father. Will Marcus be able to reason with a man so thoroughly wrapped up in such a vague prophecy that he sacrificed his entire family to it? We shall see.]_


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

 _[Author's Note: This is it. We're getting close to the end of this story. There will probably be one more chapter after this, unless my characters take over (which they've been known to do). Thank you everyone for staying with me thus far. I believe I mentioned there will be a third story of our intrepid "dimensionally displaced duo" of Tamsyn and Marcus, following the Dragonborn DLC; my daughter Amanda and I are already plotting it out. I haven't come up with a suitable title yet, in keeping with the "Into the…" theme, but if you are following me as an author, you'll receive notification when it is posted. Thank you all again!]_

* * *

Marcus and Serana set off for Icewater Jetty in the morning. Marcus would have liked nothing better than to stay home and spend more time with his family, but he knew that Isran was right about one thing: while Harkon lived, no one was safe from the threat of the vampires. Perhaps the Lord of Volkihar could be talked around, and made to see reason. Perhaps they might be able to convince him that he had been duped, but Marcus sincerely doubted it. Any man willing to sacrifice his own family – his own daughter – for an impossible ideal was already past the point where a sit-down chat over tea and a tankard of blood would have any beneficial results. He just hoped Serana wouldn't hate him if it became necessary for him to kill her father.

For her part, Serana was subdued and quiet. She spoke little, but thanked Tamsyn gratefully for the parting gift of the red enamel decanter.

"You need it more than I do," his wife told the girl. "But remember what we talked about, and keep an open mind, okay?"

Serana nodded, and thanked her again quietly. Then they mounted Odahviing and winged their way over Skyrim to the meeting place Marcus had designated. As they flew in low, over the ridge of sheer bluffs that rose up behind Northwatch Keep – which still had not been repopulated by the Dominion – Marcus could see Isran's team assembled just south of the Keep, while Vilkas and the Companions waited for him by the Jetty. He called Odahviing to set them down on the beach nearby and together he and Serana approached Isran. Bran and Sceolang were by his side. They moved when he moved and sat waiting when he stopped to talk with the Dragonborn.

"Well," Marcus greeted the Redguard leader. "This is it: the final assault. Is your team ready?" He was impressed to see at least two dozen Dawnguard assembled. Scattered among them were a half-dozen armored trolls. Marcus shuddered inwardly.

 _And I thought they looked scary enough_ without _the armor!_

"We're ready," Isran growled. "We've hidden the boats that brought us here in the cove to the west. We can take some of the Companions with us, as well. There's plenty of room in the longboats."

"Good," Marcus nodded. "The faster we can get across, the quicker we can strike. I just hope they don't see us coming."

"They probably won't," Serana said. "My father is…arrogant," she admitted. "He won't expect anyone to launch a full-scale assault against him in his own Keep. He doesn't think mortals are brave enough, or stupid enough, to try."

"Well, we're both," Marcus affirmed, forestalling any argument Isran might have started. "Odahviing is waiting for my signal. He'll strafe any vampires that come out on the walls to shoot at us. That should keep them pinned down up there. Other than a direct, concentrated attack on the front gates, though, I don't know how else we could get in."

"If they bar the gates against us, the trolls will break them down," Isran promised. "Anything else we should be prepared for?"

"The causeway is lined with gargoyle statues," Serana said. "It's possible my father will awaken them to attack us before we get to the gates."

"You'll need the trolls to deal with those, then, too," Marcus put in. "Those bastards are tough. I know; I've fought them. But let's not discount the Companions."

"Yes," Isran agreed. "Their reputation precedes them. They're formidable fighters, and I know I'll be glad to have them with us."

 _Will he be as happy when he finds out their secret?_ Marcus wondered. He decided then and there to do a little preventive maintenance.

"Let me bring Vilkas over," he suggested now. "The two of you can put your heads together to discuss strategy."

"Hmm," the Dawnguard leader rumbled. "That's not a bad idea. Alright. Bring him over. I've got a few final preparations to make."

"I'll wait here," Serana said.

"Are you sure?" Marcus asked, surprised. Being in the center of the Dawnguard would have been the last place he would have thought the vampire girl would want to wait.

"I'll be fine," she assured him. "You aren't going to be gone that long, or be that far away. I wanted to let Isran and the others know of the layout inside the castle. It might give them some advantage when we get in there."

"Okay," he replied doubtfully. But whatever was in Serana's mind, she kept it to herself.

Isran himself seemed surprised at her offer, but was clearly not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Paper and charcoal were quickly fetched, and the two were soon working on a rough sketch of the interior of the Keep.

Marcus shrugged and went to see Vilkas and the rest of the Companions.

"Hail, Harbinger," Aela greeted him from her lookout post at the top of Northwatch Keep. "Nothing is moving at the castle, as far as I can see." Aela's reputation for having the sharpest eyes of all the Companions was not to be discounted.

"Then this might actually work," Marcus grinned.

"You have doubts?" Aela inquired.

"I always have doubts," Marcus tossed back. "It's what keeps me on my toes. Where's Vilkas?"

"Down by the dock," Aela pointed. "The others are there as well. Are we moving?"

"Soon," he promised. "You'd better come down from there."

"On my way."

He waited for her, because this next bit of diplomacy required her cooperation as well. When they had rejoined the others, he called Farkas and Vilkas aside and asked them bluntly, "How much do the other Companions know of the nature of the Circle?"

Three sets of guilty eyes watched him warily.

"Nothing's been said, Harbinger," Vilkas assured him. "But…everyone knows."

"Yeah," Farkas agreed. "It's a secret to everyone. We just don't talk about it to outsiders."

"Well, that's going to have to change," Marcus said. "We're working with the Dawnguard, here, and some of them are former Vigilants of Stendarr. They don't much like daedra or daedra-worshippers."

"They've bitten off a bit more than they can chew then," Vilkas said sourly, "if these vampires are as strong as I've heard."

"They are," Marcus nodded. "And I think Isran, the leader of the Dawnguard, knows he's going to have to choose between the lesser of two daedra. For this to work, though, you three, and probably myself as well, will have to go wolf. That means we need to let Isran and his people know who and what we are. I'm not losing anyone here over misplaced religious enthusiasm if they decide there should be a few less werewolves in the world as well as vampires."

"I'm not comfortable with this," Aela protested. "I'm not ashamed of what I am, and I don't want to hide it, but I also don't want some Vigilant to go after me when we're supposed to be on the same side."

"That's why we tell them now, so there are no surprises," Marcus insisted.

"And what happens when this is over?" Aela demanded. "What's to prevent one of them from coming after us on the road somewhere?"

"They won't, because I will be telling them we're getting cured when this is done."

"What?" Aela gasped, appalled. "Didn't you just hear me, Harbinger? I _like_ being a werewolf! I have no intention of seeking a cure!"

"Shh, shh, I know, Aela, I know," Marcus soothed. "But the Dawnguard doesn't know that. As long as they think you're getting cured, you're safe. No one's coming after anyone."

Vilkas frowned. "You'd lie to them?" he scowled. "That doesn't seem very honorable."

"Aela's the only hold-out, Vilkas," Marcus pointed out. "I think I can tell a little white lie to keep her safe without besmirching my honor. The rest of us _will_ be seeking a cure, and that's all Isran needs to know."

Vilkas' brow still furrowed, troubled. "Well," he finally sighed. "If it's to keep Aela safe, then I suppose it's alright. Let's go talk to him, then."

To put it mildly, Isran wasn't happy when he realized he would be fighting side-by-side with other daedra-influenced creatures, and was even shocked to discover that Marcus was one. But he quickly realized the advantage it gave them and relented.

"As long as it's just you four," he rumbled. "I'm no longer with the Vigilants, as it happens, and this was one of the things about them that set my teeth on edge. They were…inflexible on this point. Just make sure you don't hurt any of my people, and we'll be alright."

 _That went better than I thought,_ Marcus mused. _Isran you've surprised me. I thought that stick up your ass was a class feature._

Then it was time to load the boats. There were more than Marcus expected there to be, but as Celann pointed out, few people wished to ride in the same longboat as a fully armed and armored troll.

"They're actually quite docile on the water," he grinned. "I think they're afraid of going in, so they sit very still. Takes some coaxing to get them in the boat, though."

Bran and Sceolang went with Isran, their armored padding strapped tightly around them. Marcus wondered, not for the first time, if the dogs were up to this kind of challenge. These weren't just feral vampires.

Marcus and Serana ended up, coincidentally, in the same longboat as Celann and Agmaer, with an armored troll between them. Sinding, Marcus was surprised to see, had come along with the Companions.

"I owe everything to you, Harbinger," the man said humbly. "If I can help here, then that's what I intend to do."

"Miss Serana?" Agmaer began, tentatively. "You can sit here. The wind's blowing from the south, so you won't have to smell the troll."

"Thank you, Agmaer," she said politely, not looking at him. She didn't point out that the smell wouldn't have bothered her anyway, since she didn't breathe.

"And please, forgive me if I wasn't very kind to you before," he continued in a rush. "I didn't realize...didn't understand before…"

"What didn't you understand, Agmaer?" she asked quietly, looking at him now.

The orange eyes almost undid his resolve, but he plunged ahead anyway. "I didn't understand how hard this must be for you," he finished. "I think it's very brave of you!"

She gazed up at the blonde, young Nord for a long moment before she smiled. It was a closed-mouth smile, not showing her fangs, but it was a genuine smile nonetheless.

"Thank you, Agmaer," she beamed. "That means a lot to me."

The crossing took almost an hour, even with the wind behind them. The clusters of boats were pulled up high on the pebbly shore to guard against the tide. No one knew how many would be needed for the return trip. It was a question no one wanted to contemplate.

As Marcus stepped out onto the beach, the portcullis of the castle opened.

"They know we're here now!" he called. "Get ready!" He gave the signal to Odahviing, who was flying low overhead, even as arrows were _plinking_ down just short of their position. The dragon roared his challenge, and the archers on the parapets were suddenly confronted with a wall of flame, belched out by an ancient red dragon who was having the time of his life.

" _Ru, sosnaak!"_ he taunted them. "Run! You cannot escape my flames!"

Marcus loaded Auriel's Bow with one of the Sunhallowed arrows and let it fly. It sailed into the air and burst with the incandescence of a noon-day sun. He hadn't attempted to hit anything with it. Tamsyn had told him the night before that this would be sufficient to weaken Harkon's forces. And though he worried about its effects on Serana, the Volkihar girl insisted he do whatever was necessary to stop her father.

"With me, Dawnguard!" Isran bellowed above the dragon's roar, and he led the charge up the causeway.

"For Skyrim!" Vilkas howled, and the Companions followed him, close behind Isran.

Halfway up, a thundering boom was heard, as the stone gargoyles suddenly came to life. Celann directed the nearest troll to deal with them, and turned to the troll on his other side, only to come face to face with a gargoyle instead.

"Over he—" he began, but the gargoyle slammed a stony fist into the side of his head, and Marcus could hear the sickening crush of the man's skull from where he stood.

" _Celann!"_ he howled, and immediately felt the bloodrush building. He allowed it to come over him and changed into wolf form, advancing on the gargoyle as it closed on the unsuspecting Agmaer, too busy with the vampire that had rushed out from the fortress to pay attention to what was behind him.

Grimly, Marcus threw himself at the gargoyle and savaged it ferociously. He hadn't known Celann very well, or for very long, and now he would never get the chance. All of his anger and frustration over all he'd been through channeled itself through his attacks, and those who survived the day said later that the Dragonborn in wolf form was a force no one wanted to cross unless they had a death wish.

Serana held her own against the vampire sent against her.

"Your father will reward us handsomely for your capture," Fura Bloodmouth gloated, leveling her life draining spell at her Lord's daughter.

"Yeah, you see the thing about collecting a reward," Serana said conversationally, a trick she'd picked up from Marcus, "is that you have to be alive to collect it. And since you're not really alive…" She let her voice trail off as she feinted with electricity and skewered the vampire with her glass sword in her off hand.

Near the front gate, Isran and Farkas – in wolf form – were back-to-back, clearing the way to force the doors open. Sceolang's body lay at one side of the causeway, near the wall where he'd fallen, but Bran was viciously attacking any vampire that came close. Overhead, Odahviing was patrolling the sky, picking off any vampires foolish enough to venture out onto the wall.

Marcus looked around and saw far too many Dawnguard bodies littering the ground. Ria was being helped to safety by Torvar, whose right arm hung useless at his side. It looked as though Ria had taken damage to her midsection, as there was an awful lot of blood. Sinding was battling furiously with a vampire, but so far seemed to be holding his own. Though no longer a werewolf, he fought with the legendary ferocity of a fully enraged Nord warrior.

Marcus could smell the blood in the air, as well as the musty, decayed scent of the vampires. It was costing too much, this front assault. They had to get inside quickly before they lost anyone else.

"Agmaer!" he barked, and the young Nord blinked before realizing who was talking to him.

"D-dragonborn?" he stammered.

"Grab that last troll. We need to get the gates open, _now!_ Follow me!"

"Yes, sir!" Without further questions, the young man grabbed the tether on the last remaining armored troll and tugged, pulling it after him.

Marcus cleared the way, callously grabbing and tearing apart any vampire that got in his way. He back-handed one and from the tail of his eye saw it sail over the edge of the causeway to the rocks below.

Vilkas and Aela were teamed up with a handful of the Dawnguard dealing with the rest of the gargoyles as Marcus and Agmaer approached.

"Good," Vilkas nodded, his tail wagging. "We can use some muscle to get that front door open!"

"Everyone, get behind me," Marcus ordered as they stood in front of the door. "Agmaer, get him to knock it down."

The young Nord nodded. "Grog," he ordered, pointing. "Break door!"

Grog – if that was truly the creature's name, or just Agmaer's fancy – grunted enthusiastically and slammed his meaty paws against the door. Marcus threw his whole weight against it, and Farkas did the same on the other side of the troll.

"Be careful when you get inside," Serana warned. "My father's strongest forces will be in there."

"Noted," Isran growled. "But it won't matter. This ends today!"

It took them a bit to force the door, but when they did they entered the Keep and found themselves in the outer chamber that led to the balcony overlooking the great hall.

"Fan out," Isran ordered. "Leave no vampire alive!"

No one dared to point out they weren't really alive, anyway.

The Dawnguard and the rest of the Companions flowed down both sides of the staircase into the hall, where they were met by more vampires, death hounds and a couple of gargoyles. In the confusion, Marcus found himself separated from Serana, and swept to one side of the hall, pressed by a gargoyle and two very insistent vampires. When a death hound joined them, it was everything he could do to hold his own against them.

"Hold on, Marcus!" Sinding roared. "I'm coming!"

The former werewolf tackled the death hound with his huge, double-bladed war axe, and it was all blood and fur after that. The gargoyle went down to Marcus' powerful blows, smashed into its mineral components, but the two vampires kept him cornered while keeping a safe distance from his massive paws.

"So this is the one they call Dragonborn," one of them, a former Altmer, sneered. "Quite a come-down for the slayer of Alduin, don't you think, Garan?"

"Indeed, Vingalmo," Garan agreed. Before becoming a vampire, he had been a Dunmer. "Perhaps we should keep him as cattle when this is done. I wonder what dragon blood tastes like?"

"Let me introduce you to Odahviing outside," Marcus rejoined. "You can ask him if he's willing to give you some of his blood. I think I'll be keeping mine." He swept low but Vingalmo easily dodged the attack, while keeping the life drain on him. Marcus could feel himself weakening and pulled back further into his corner. He swiftly glanced around the room, but could not see Serana, though he smelled her particular scent on the air. So she was here, somewhere nearby; he just couldn't see her.

 _Time to call for reinforcements,_ he thought desperately, and howled.

He knew the Circle would be too busy to come, and didn't expect them to, but was relieved to see the ghostly red wolves appear from behind Vingalmo and Garan. The spirit-wolves leaped on the vampires from behind in a sneak attack, distracting them long enough for Marcus to slip away, following Serana's scent.

"Hestla!" he heard Farkas growl from around a corner. "You traitorous bitch! So _this_ is where you went!"

"Nice to see you again, Farkas," a female vampire said snidely. "How have you been? Still playing second puppy to your brother? Ah, it seems like only yesterday you were crawling around Jorrvaskr, biting knees."

"This puppy has a stronger bite, now," Farkas warned. "And I don't only go for knees!"

"Prove it with your sword, Ice Brain," she sneered, and then the only sounds Marcus heard were steel on steel. This told him Farkas had already reverted back to human form. He would be more vulnerable now, and the Dragonborn knew he couldn't let anything happen to the gentle giant.

"Need some help?" he asked casually, stepping around the corner. Farkas was facing a blonde, Nord vampire in red armor.

"He needs all the help he can get," the vampire, Hestla, laughed. "I used to be in awe of you Companions," she continued, "especially those in the Circle. But I'm so much stronger than you now!"

She lashed out with her sword but also gestured with her hand and that inevitable, hated, life-drain spell shot out, hitting Marcus as Hestla battled Farkas.

"I'm getting a little tired of that damned spell!" Marcus growled, and rushed in, snapping with his powerful jaws. A shriek went up from Hestla as his teeth closed over her spell hand. Not pausing to think, Marcus chomped down and severed her hand from her body, then spit it out to one side.

There was no blood, but he didn't expect there to be. Hestla was gasping, clutching her stump to her chest.

"Hey, thanks, Harbinger," Farkas grinned. "I gotta 'hand' it to you, you really know how to 'dis-arm' a foe!"

"Anytime," Marcus smirked with a wolfish tongue-loll. Whoever said Farkas was dim-witted never appreciated puns, the lowest form of humor.

Leaving the wolf twin to deal with the handicapped vampire, Marcus pushed on, still searching for Serana. All around him, small skirmishes were being fought. He saw Njada and Sinding fighting back-to-back against two death hounds. Njada was smiling grimly. Sinding wasn't smiling, but there was a frown of grim concentration on his face. Athis and Tilde, from the Dawnguard, were struggling against a group of vampires bolstered with a gargoyle, and it looked as though they were losing the fight. He leaped on the gargoyle from behind, taking it by surprise and reducing it to ore. Athis nodded his thanks as he left.

The noise was deafening, and the smells of death and carnage almost choked him. The taste of blood was in his mouth; the smell of it was in the air, and though he hadn't fed on any of his kills, he knew that he could remain a werewolf for a little while longer, unless he invoked Hircine's Ring to change back, which he fully intended to do when he faced down Harkon. There was a certain amount of dignity to be preserved when confronting one's enemies, he felt.

In a small chamber off the main hall, Marcus found Isran alone, backed into a coffin, fighting three vampires at one. He looked pale, especially for a Redguard, and Marcus launched himself at the closest vampire, hauling him back by the neck, ripping out the cold, lifeless hunk that had been her heart. For good measure he broke her neck before tossing her body aside, and turned immediately to the next one, laying open its side with his claws. The screech that met this action was one he would hear in his sleep for many nights to come.

Isran – now that he was not so pressed – managed to kill the third one, and he stood there, breathing hard and heavy.

"Take a moment," Marcus cautioned him. "Drink a potion or three. You look awful."

"Thanks, I think," the Dawnguard leader said, digging into his pack. "I lost Bran back there in the hallway. These three jumped me here as I tried to get back to the main hall. Where's Serana?"

"I'm looking for her," Marcus assured him. "We got separated."

"I think I saw her up on the mezzanine," Isran said. "How's it going out there?" He nodded back the way Marcus had come.

"Heavy losses on both sides," Marcus said grimly. "I could wish we could have done this with more stealth, but I don't think we'd have been able to get in without knocking down the doors."

"Are all the trolls dead, then, too?" Isran didn't look particularly unhappy about that.

"I'm not sure," Marcus admitted. "I think I saw Grog still over by the front door. No one's given him any directions since we busted in."

"Too close quarters in here," Isran mused. "It's probably better he keeps out of it for now. Go find Serana. Let's get this over with."

"Already on my way," Marcus said, turning. "I just wanted to make sure _you're_ alright." And he realized he meant it. Isran might be an anally-retentive asshole sometimes, but the man meant well, and he admitted when he was wrong. That was more than some people could do.

Following his nose, honing in on Serana's particular scent, he finally found her on the mezzanine, huddled up on the floor. There was something – someone – lying halfway on her lap.

"Serana?" he called gently, allowing himself to revert back to human form.

She looked up, and in the torchlight from the sconces, he saw Agmaer, his eyes fixed on Aetherius. The young Nord who only wanted to make a difference was gone.

"He saved me," Serana said softly, her face streaked with tears. "Orthjolf almost had me." She gestured to the body of another of her father's court lying not far away, near a dead death hound. "Agmaer came up the stairs and saw I was in trouble, and he didn't even hesitate. He killed Orthjolf, but the death hound got him…and…and I couldn't even save him. I don't know Restoration spells!"

Her face crumpled again and she bent over Agmaer's lifeless body, her shoulders wracked with sobs.

For a long moment, Marcus crouched there, patting her shoulder. There was nothing he could say. Not for the first time that day he wished Tamsyn could have come with them, but he understood why she felt the need to stay home. There were many issues related to their ongoing campaign against the Thalmor that she needed to handle; not the least of which was communicating to Ulfric, Tullius and Madanach everything that had gone on during her time in Cyrodiil.

"Serana," he urged her, hating himself for having to do it, "we need to find your father. He wasn't in the main hall."

Sniffling, she nodded and looked up, wiping at her eyes. "If he isn't in the main portion of the castle, he'll be hiding out in the chapel," she hiccupped. "He had it converted to Molag Bal centuries ago."

"Where is the chapel?" Marcus asked, helping her to her feet. He found an embroidered cloth on a side table nearby and pulled it off, giving it a snap to clear it of dust before laying it over Agmaer's face.

"We have to go back downstairs," she replied. "It's off to one side of the main hall."

They retraced their steps, and Marcus noticed the fighting seemed to be lessening. He wished he knew if that meant they were winning or losing, but couldn't take the time to find out.

"It's through here," Serana said, pointing to a corner door at the top of a short flight of stairs.

"But you'll never reach your father, traitor!" a voice said behind them.

"Vingalmo!" Serana blurted as they whirled around. "Loyal to the last, eh?"

"Of course, my dear," the elf vampire replied. "Your lap dog sent his pets against me, but they were no match for a vampire as powerful as myself."

"Second only to my father," Serana drawled, rolling her eyes. "Yes, I know, as you've told me many times."

"You're about to find out exactly what that means," Vingalmo sneered, sending out several ice spikes in succession. They imbedded themselves in Marcus' armor as he stepped in front of Serana. It hurt, but not as badly as he feared.

"You've trained your puppy well," the vampire grinned cruelly. "Let's see what he can do with this!"

The life-draining spell came out again; with his other hand, Vingalmo raised the closest dead body, which happened to be a member of the Dawnguard Marcus didn't recognize. Now he had to fend off Vingalmo's attacks as well as the raised thrall's, all while trying to keep Serana behind him. For her part, Serana targeted the Dawnguard with her lightning bolts until it disintegrated, then switched to Vingalmo.

"You know, I bit the hand off the last person to do this to me," Marcus warned the vampire. Vingalmo didn't seem impressed, but he backed away to attempt a clearer shot at Serana.

The dragonbone sword, Alduin's Bane kept up a flurry of strikes and parries as Vingalmo countered Marcus' attacks with the Daedric blade he wielded.

"Where did you get that sword?" Serana demanded. "You didn't have that when I lived here."

"A lot has changed since you graced us with your presence, traitor," he sniffed. "You always were a spoiled brat. Now that the restrictions against doing you harm have been lifted, it will be my pleasure to take your existence, and your place as Volkihar's heir apparent."

"Nice dream," Serana scoffed.

"Yeah, go big or go home, I always say," Marcus acknowledged, barely countering another potentially lethal blow from the vampire. "But you're forgetting one thing, Vingalmo."

"I doubt that," the former Altmer sneered. "You can't best me with a sword, and I know for a fact you can't do high-level magic. Admit it. I'm better than you."

"Can you Shout?" Marcus grinned.

Vingalmo's eyes widened as Marcus inhaled.

" _YOL TOOR SHUL!"_

The resultant shriek echoed through the rafters and down the hall. It didn't stop until Vingalmo collapsed on the floor; soon after, he was nothing more than a pile of ash.

"Good riddance!" Serana jeered. "I never liked him."

"Let's finish this, Serana," Marcus prompted. "Let's go confront your father. Are you ready?"

"I…I think so," she answered. "I hate this, but…yes, we need to end this. It's just through here." She turned and opened the door behind them.

The chamber beyond was large, open and dark. Half walls of stone railing flanked either side of the room, with stairs leading to a balcony that ran around the perimeter and across the back of the chamber, where they were standing. There were at least four gargoyle statues around the room that Marcus eyed nervously. At the other end, nearly lost in the dimness, was a large altar that appeared to be a fountain of blood. He could smell it from where he stood.

Harkon, Lord of Volkihar Castle, hovered in the middle of the room in full vampire lord aspect, as he had once revealed himself to Marcus, in an attempt to persuade the Dragonborn to join his cause. A sneer crossed the already-hideous face, exposing long, cruel canine fangs.

"So, Serana," he began, ignoring Marcus for the present. "You have returned. Is your…pet…keeping you entertained?"

"You know why we're here," Serana said firmly. Her resolve seemed firm; her voice didn't falter.

"Of course I do," her father scoffed. "You disappoint me, Serana. You've taken everything I provided for you and thrown it all away for this…pathetic being."

"Provided for me?" Serana spluttered. "Are you insane? You've destroyed our family! You've killed other vampires. All over some prophecy that we barely understand. And then to find out it was all a lie to get back at a _god?_ No more! I'm done with you. You will not touch him!"

"What nonsense is this?" Harkon demanded. "The prophecy will be the saving of our kind. But you, my dear daughter, will not be around to see its fruition. Your voice drips with the venom of your mother's influence. How alike you've become!"

"No," Serana insisted, shaking her head. "I'm not like her. Not completely. Because unlike her, I'm not afraid of you anymore."

As if already bored with the turn of the conversation, Harkon turned to Marcus.

"And you," he sneered. "It appears I have you to thank for turning my daughter against me. I knew it was only a matter of time before she returned with hatred in her heart."

"It wasn't me, pal," Marcus asserted. "You did that all on your own when you got caught up in a prophecy with one big major flaw you chose to overlook."

"That is the second time the prophecy has been challenged," Harkon fumed. "Tell me, _mortal,_ if you are so singularly enlightened, why I should believe you."

"'Enlightened,' eh?" Marcus mused. "A good choice of words. Hear me out, Harkon. Your prophecy was fabricated ages ago by a Snow Elf Arch-Curate who became infected as a vampire. When he felt his god turned against him, he swore vengeance against that god by devising a plan to corrupt the deity's own weapon. What he never explained in the prophecy, keeping it deliberately vague, as all prophecies are, was this: if you blot out the sun, you kill all life on this world, and that means all the plants, all the animals, all the people. What do you plan to feed on when we're all gone?"

A fleeting glimpse of concern flitted across Harkon's grotesque features, but he quickly suppressed them.

"Lord Molag Bal will provide," he insisted.

"Ha!" Marcus barked an unpleasant laugh. "Molag Bal wants you _all_ in Coldharbour, to torture at his leisure. Tell me, Harkon: I have a pretty good idea what your wife and daughter went through; what did Molag Bal do to _you_ , to turn you into a full-blooded vampire? Did you enjoy it? So much so that you're looking forward to the next eternity there? Well, forgive me if I think your daughter deserves better. You forced her into this kind of un-life without even consulting her, or asking her if it was what she wanted. As a father myself, I find that appalling. You were her guardian and her protector, and you failed her, Harkon. You _failed._ Do the right thing now. Redeem yourself. Give up this scheme. You're being played by a daedra and a false prophet, but there's no need to let this go any further."

"And what would you propose?" Lord Volkihar shot back. "Would you and your Dawnguard friends allow me and mine to stay here, unmolested, knowing what we are?"

Marcus didn't answer immediately. He knew it would never sit well with Isran, knowing there was an entire castle full of vampires waiting until they were all dead to try something like this again.

"I thought not," Harkon purred smugly. "And what happens when you've slain me? Is Valerica next, wherever she's hiding? Is Serana?"

"I would never harm Serana," Marcus insisted, meeting Serana's eyes. "She's too important to me."

"Then my daughter is truly lost," Harkon said bitterly. "She died the moment she accepted a mortal into her life."

"So you won't give up?" Marcus challenged.

"Never," the vampire lord growled.

"Then there's nothing left to say," Marcus replied. He turned to the girl at his side. "I'm sorry, Serana. I tried."

"Enough of this!" Harkon intoned. "I'm growing weary of speaking to you and my traitorous daughter. I'll give you a single chance to turn over Auriel's Bow to me. There will not be a second."

Marcus looked the vampire lord squarely in his red, glowing eyes. "When pigs fly," he spat.

Harkon scowled. "Very well, then. You leave me no choice!"

Without another word, Harkon gestured with one hand. The bones on the floor began to tremble and rise up, forming complete skeletons in a matter of seconds. In addition, the gargoyle statues shattered and came to life.

"Time to go wolf, little missy," Marcus warned her.

"No!" she cried. "I can hold these off. You need to use Auriel's Bow against my father. It's our only chance!"

"There are a _lot_ of enemies here, Serana!" he protested, but she was already morphing as he looked at her, into her own powerful vampire form.

"I said I've got this, Marcus," she hissed. "Please don't make me have to kill my own father!"

Nodding, he pulled the Bow off his back, nocking it with a Sunhallowed arrow. Dodging the skeletons he looked around for Harkon, who had vanished.

" _Laas yah niir,"_ he whispered, and found the Lord of Volkihar behind them on the balcony over their heads. He moved to the center of the room and shot with the Bow. A resounding explosion rocked the room, and shook the floor beneath his feet, but he saw with satisfaction that Harkon had been caught in the brunt of the blast. Still, the ancient vampire moved easily around the perimeter, drifting up and down the stairs with ease, two feet above the stone floor.

Again and again, Marcus fired the Bow, seething with frustration when Harkon moved just outside the blast zone before the arrow detonated. But enough damage was being done, he could tell, and at one point he thought it was all over…until the vampire lord transformed himself into a flurry of bats and retreated to the blood fountain where he seemed to be recharging himself.

 _Damn you!_ he thought. He had a limited supply of Sunhallowed arrows, and now it was time to make every shot count. As Harkon moved away from the altar, Marcus bellowed forth another Fire Breath Shout, catching the vampire full in the face.

Growling, Harkon moved up a side flight of stairs to the upper level once more, keeping the pillars and columns between himself and Marcus as much as he was able. But while a direct hit would have been best, an area of effect blast still did significant damage.

Serana, in the meantime, was hard-pressed to handle the gargoyles on her own. One had gone down and had crumbled to dust. Another was staggered, and down to one knee. But two others were still attempting to beat on either her or Marcus, and he was obliged to stop shooting with the Bow long enough to defend himself against their assault. With Auriel's Bow gripped tightly in his left hand, he drew Alduin's Bane to beat on the gargoyles.

"You can't stop the prophecy," Harkon taunted from the shadows. "I will rip the Dawnguard apart!"

Marcus didn't bother to answer. He knew the vampire lord was goading him, hoping to trick him into making a mistake.

Serana finished the crippled gargoyle and back-swiped a skeleton that made the mistake of getting too close. Dimly, they could hear pounding on the door at the back of the chapel. Either Harkon had reinforcements on the way, or the Dawnguard had arrived, a bit tardy to the party.

Marcus saw a darker shadow move against the gloom and shot another arrow in that direction, hearing Harkon swear as the arrow exploded around him. The Dragonborn could tell the vampire lord was weakening, and once more Harkon turned into a cloud of bats to head to the fountain and regroup.

Marcus was ready for him, and as soon as Harkon materialized, he shot two Sunhallowed arrows in quick succession, before the vampire could move.

"No!" Harkon wailed, seeming to ignite from within. "The prophecy…Serana…your own father…"

The red fire consumed him, reducing him to ashes before their eyes. The two remaining gargoyles, as well as the last of the skeletons, crumbled to dust at their feet. The pounding on the rear door continued.

For a long moment, Marcus stared at the ash pile, not quite fully comprehending what he had accomplished. A moment later, Serana – in her human form – joined him. She slipped a hand into his.

"It's done then, isn't it?" she said in a small voice. "I wish…I wish it could have been different."

"So do I, Serana," Marcus said sincerely. "I did try to reason with him."

"I know," she nodded. "I'm not blaming you. I lost him a long time ago." But her eyes were misty as she spoke.

The door finally burst open, and Isran entered with Vilkas and Aela behind him.

"I guess we're a bit late to help out," Aela said sardonically.

Serana managed a small smile. "I could have used it a few minutes ago."

"Sorry," the red-haired huntress said sincerely. "We got tied up back there with a few stragglers."

"Is everything alright now?" Vilkas asked.

"Yeah, I think so," Marcus said. "Stick around though. I want a full report before we leave."

"Aye," the wolf twin nodded. "We'll wait for you…but outside. I've had all I can stomach of this place. No offense, Serana," he added as an afterthought.

"None taken," she assured him. "I'm inclined to agree with you."

The two Companions left, and Marcus and Serana found themselves alone with Isran.

"So, it's done then?" the Redguard leader asked heavily.

Marcus and Serana nodded.

"Well," Isran sighed. "I guess…I guess we've done all we can here." He turned to Serana. "And you, Serana," he added simply. "I guess you sacrificed the most of any of us. For that, I thank you."

Serana didn't trust herself to speak, and Marcus put a hand on her shoulder.

"We have…bodies to recover," Isran said. "We'll be heading back to Fort Dawnguard as soon as we have that sorted out. If I don't see you two again any time soon, thanks for everything."

He clasped wrists with Marcus and left the chamber.

"I can't believe it's really done," Serana whispered. "All those centuries of hiding, finished."

"What will you do now?" Marcus asked gently. "Have you given it any thought?"

"I'm not really sure," she shrugged. "I really don't want to stay here – even if Mother comes back. And I really don't want to go back to Fort Dawnguard."

"The whole world is open to you," Marcus offered.

"But not to a vampire," Serana pointed out. "It would only be a matter of time before some young Dawnguard recruit comes across me. And even if I helped them out before, they still have their agenda going. I wouldn't be able to go to this Blackreach of yours, either, for the same reason. Your people wouldn't trust me."

Marcus nodded, silent for a moment, before speaking tentatively. "Have you given any thought to…you know…seeking a cure?"

"I don't know," Serana said, not looking at him. "I mean, I've been a vampire for so long. And I went through so much to get these powers. Why would I give it up?"

Marcus considered this. "Well, you saw what it did to your family," he suggested.

Serana gave a mirthless snort. "My family wasn't the most normal to begin with. We were Daedra-worshippers, remember? Becoming a vampire didn't do this to us," she said honestly. "The problems were already there. It just…aggravated the situation."

"Well, you could be your own person," Marcus pointed out. "You could make your own decisions for how you want to live your life."

The vampire girl seemed to consider this. "The idea has merit," she agreed. "But I'd like to think about it some more before I do anything. You said you wanted to get cured of your lycanthropy, and we still have to get my mother out of the Soul Cairn. Maybe when that's done, I'll consider it."

"Fair enough," Marcus agreed, determined not to push her too hard. "We should head back to Whiterun, then, after I check in with Vilkas. But first, I think I'd like to see if there are any prisoners here. You mentioned before that your father kept them here to feed on. They should be freed."

"I agree," Serana said. "They've suffered enough."

She led him down into the bowels of the castle to the pen where the 'cattle' were kept. Fearful at first, their pathetic joy at being released brought a lump into Marcus' throat and his vision swam. He had to constantly reassure them that their ordeal was truly over and they were free to return to their lives. When they emerged into the daylight outside the castle, many squinted and covered their eyes, having been kept in the darkness for so long.

Isran and Vilkas took charge of the former slaves, making sure each drank potions to cure any recent onset of vampirism, and tending their wounds.

"We'll take them to Solitude," Isran promised. "The priest at the Temple there should be able to bless them and see that they don't become vampires."

Beyond the Redguard leader, Marcus saw too many cloth-draped bodies laid out on the cobblestone causeway, waiting to be loaded into the boats. Nearly eight of the Dawnguard, including Celann, who had fallen in the first rush, and Agmaer, who had died in Serana's arms, lay on blankets on the cold stone ground. Two of the Companions were also dead. Njada, whose throat had been ripped open, and Torvar, who had died defending a gravely-wounded Ria. Only repeated administrations of minor healing potions had kept Ria from succumbing to her injuries.

Marcus dug into his pack and found the last three healing potions Tamsyn and Sofie had made for him and pressed them into Sinding's hands, who was hovering near Ria.

"Give her these," he said shortly.

 _Too high,_ he thought bitterly. _The cost of saving the world this time is too high._

Isran saw the look that crossed the Dragonborn's face. "I know," he nodded shortly. "We paid a heavy cost, but I think even you would agree it was worth it." Marcus didn't answer. He didn't trust himself not to say something he might have regretted later.

Vilkas gave him a full report on how the rest of the Companions fared. Aela's ear had nearly been ripped off while still in wolf form; she wore a bandage over her left ear now. Athis suffered from what appeared to be a couple of cracked ribs. He'd downed a couple minor healing potions, and they had bound his chest, but he was still moving and breathing gingerly. Sinding alone seemed to have come through relatively unscathed, though he admitted to having packed several healing potions, "just in case."

Vilkas himself was bleeding from several cuts, and Farkas limped when he walked, though he stoically said nothing.

"Get to Solitude," Marcus ordered. "Heal up at the Temple there before you all head back to Whiterun. I'll need the Circle at full health before we return to Ysgramor's Tomb."

"Aye, Harbinger!" Vilkas said, eyes lighting up. "I was hoping you hadn't forgotten that!"

"Not bloody likely," Marcus said soberly. "Rest up. We'll head to Ysgramor's Tomb after we've mourned our dead."

* * *

The trip back to Whiterun was as swift as it was sober. Serana was lost in her own thoughts, while Marcus' mind churned with all the loose ends he still felt needed tying up. Gelebor, at least, deserved to know how everything had turned out; Valerica waited for them in the Soul Cairn – a place he was loathe to revisit, but it was necessary. Durnehviir was there as well, and Marcus felt the old dragon had been cheated by the Ideal Masters. If there was a way to free him of his bargain, Marcus wanted to find it. Perhaps Tamsyn would have some ideas.

But first and foremost, he wanted to rid himself of the presence of Hircine in his mind. Though he had been mostly quiet during the last few weeks, Marcus still resented the severing with his patron, Akatosh, that the Lord of the Hunt's presence represented. He wanted that contact back. And that meant getting rid of his inner wolf. He knew Hircine wouldn't let him go easily, and for that reason, he wanted the Circle with him when he took the cure.

The Companions had attracted several new recruits in the last year, whelps who had been too inexperienced to come with them. Eorlund Gray-mane, and his brother Vignar, were keeping an eye on them to make sure they didn't get into trouble, or dishonor the name of 'Companion'. As Harbinger, however, it was Marcus' responsibility to inform them of the loss of Njada and Torvar, and to prepare the funeral biers at the Skyforge.

"My heart is heavy for the loss of our Shield Brother and Sister," Eorlund said when Marcus sought him out. "But they died valiantly, hoping to stem the tide of a scourge that threatened us all. We will remember them in song and story tomorrow when they come home."

"Do I need to prepare a speech?" Marcus asked hesitantly. He hated giving speeches. He never knew what to say, and he hadn't known Torvar or Njada that well.

"No, Harbinger," Eorlund said kindly. "The eulogy we gave at Kodlak's funeral is sufficient. When we return to Jorrvaskr, someone will eventually recall a story about one of our Shield Siblings, and that will cause the others to share their memories."

"Good," Marcus murmured, breathing a sigh of relief.

"You know," Eorlund mused, "speaking of Kodlak, ever since his funeral the Skyforge feels more…awake."

"Awake?" Marcus blinked. "You mean, like it's alive?"

The old smith shrugged. "It's always been said that the souls of the heroes of old are what give Skyforge steel its strength. But I think the forge knows the greatness of Kodlak's soul. I can't really explain, but it feels like it's…young. I'll wager it could now forge metal the likes of which hasn't been seen since years long forgotten. I'm eager to try."

"As if your Skyforge steel needs any boosting of its reputation," Marcus grinned.

"I have to do something to keep up with that young upstart Balimund in Riften," Eorlund winked before returning to the preparations.

Eorlund was right about one thing: it wasn't long after returning to Jorrvaskr, and after the funeral that the others began sharing memories of the two fallen Companions. Alesan shared how kind Njada had been to him and Lars, teaching them the proper ways to use a shield for blocking and bashing. Farkas seemed to know the most stories about Torvar, and most of them involved drinking.

"I remember one time he got it into his head he was going to raise his own bees, make his own mead," Farkas grinned. "Said if someone like Maven Black-Briar could do it, how hard could it be?"

"I remember that," Aela growled, rolling her eyes. "The idiot brought them _inside_ Jorrvaskr because some fetcher told him they'd die in the cold outside."

Athis shifted uncomfortably.

"That can't have ended well," Marcus grinned, glad he hadn't been here.

"It took us weeks to clear them out," Vilkas rumbled. "We kept finding them in odd corners of the hall, upstairs and down."

"The worst of all," Ria put in, now looking and feeling much better, "was that Torvar found out he was sensitive to their sting. Made him real sick and we had to rush him to the temple. He wasn't so keen on keeping them after that."

The stories flowed along with the mead, and it was late before Marcus and Alesan returned home. Lydia had already retired for the night, but Tamsyn and Serana were still up, quietly talking. Serana greeted them politely before heading downstairs to her bed.

Alesan yawned his way up to his own room, leaving Marcus and Tamsyn to retire to their own chamber.

"Everything alright with Serana?" Marcus asked, concerned, as she helped him out of the dragon plate armor.

Tamsyn nodded. "She has a big decision to make," his wife replied. "One that she would rather not. She was deeply affected by what you had to do to her father, even while she knows it was necessary. And you still have to bring her mother back from the Soul Cairn. She's not exactly certain where she stands with that relationship anymore, much less how a decision to become human again would affect it."

"She's welcome here, whatever she decides," Marcus said firmly.

"I know that," Tamsyn soothed. "Serana knows it, too. She said she's felt more at peace here in Breezehome than any other place she's been. I told her she was more than welcome to stay here, but she gave me that disarming smile of hers and pointed out how cramped we are for space. Which brings me to the next topic of conversation: we need to move."

"I've been thinking about that for a while now," Marcus admitted with an exaggerated sigh. "I don't really want to move out of Whiterun, but there isn't anything larger available. Balgruuf told me he might be able to find some land we could build on, but it would still put Sofie too far away to remain as Arcadia's apprentice. Lucia has her farm, but it needs repairs, and is almost halfway to Rorikstead."

"It's not that far," Tamsyn smirked. "Besides," she pointed out, "most apprentices live with their masters." She wriggled out of her Arch-Mage robes as she spoke, and Marcus watched her appreciatively before snuffing the candle on his side of the bed and slipping beneath the covers.

"Arcadia has less room than we do," he countered, shaking his head. "And while I'm comfortable enough sending Blaise off to live in Riften alone, I'm not comfortable leaving Sofie here in Breezehome by herself. Call me old-fashioned."

"You're old-fashioned," Tamsyn grinned impishly, snuggling into the crook of his arm. "But I'm inclined to agree with you. However, there may be a solution."

"What's that?"

"I happen to know that there is land available in the Pale," the Arch-Mage said smugly. "If you talk to Brina Merelis, the Jarl up there now, she might be inclined to let us purchase the lot and build there. It's not all that far from Whiterun; in fact, you can see Dragonsreach from the front door of Heljarchen Hall."

Marcus frowned. "Heljarchen Hall?"

"That's what it was called in the game," Tamsyn explained. "And really, when you think about it, it's an ideal location for us. It's not that far from Dawnstar, Whiterun, Winterhold or Solitude, and the exit from the Tower of Mzark is practically in our backyard…if we bought the land, that is."

"We'd still have to walk everywhere," Marcus frowned again.

"We can hire our own private carriage. Or build a stable for some horses." Tamsyn waited expectantly.

"Hmm…" he mused. "You seem to have your heart set on this."

"It just makes sense, that's all," she shrugged. "Besides, it won't be too much longer before we'll _have_ to add on some kind of nursery. If we build Heljarchen Hall, we can design it the way we like. And by the time it's finished—"

She broke off as Marcus sat up and conjured the simple Candlelight spell she had taught him years ago. He gazed down at her before slowly peeling back the coverlet.

"So _that's_ what's different," he murmured, a smile spreading slowly over his face.

"You're not upset?" Tamsyn asked, worry pinching her brows together. "I know we said we'd wait, and I've been very careful until recently, right before I left for Cyrodiil, but so much started happening—"

She didn't get to finish as he gathered her close to his chest and kissed her long, slowly and deeply. She was breathless, and her toes were curling when he lifted his lips from hers.

"No," he smiled. "I'm not upset. As long as it's what _you_ want, too."

Relief washed over Tamsyn and the sun came out in her smile. "I'm so glad! Because I _do_ want this baby, Marcus!"

"How far along are you?" he asked now, placing his hand gently on her stomach.

She gave him a playful bat on the shoulder. "I just told you it was before I left for Cyrodiil! Only about a month or so. Which means this is going to be a very _long_ pregnancy. The last few times I went through this, in Gaea, I was several months along before I even realized it."

He grinned as the Candlelight spell winked out and he settled back down, holding her close to his side. "Then I guess I'd better go have a talk with the Jarl of the Pale!"

The euphoria which swept over Marcus at the knowledge he would be a father again stayed with him until midday following the night of the funerals. Serana approached him tentatively.

"Can I ask you something?" she began.

"Of course, Serana," he smiled. "Ask me anything. What's on your mind?"

"I know you want to go to this Ysgramor's Tomb you mentioned," she said, "to get cured of your lycanthropy, but I was hoping we could go to the Soul Cairn first and get Mother out of there."

Marcus thought about it only for a moment. It would mean letting Vilkas and the rest of the Circle know plans had been postponed, but he didn't see a problem with that. Unless the Wolf Twins were in that much of a hurry to get cured themselves.

"Why the sudden hurry?" he asked. "I thought you were ready to come with me to the Tomb?"

"I am!" she hastily assured him. "And I will. It's just…I just want Mother safe again. She's all I really have left." This last past was said with Serana refusing to meet his eyes, and Marcus felt his heart sink. In spite of all his efforts to convince her without words to seek a cure for her vampirism, she had clearly chosen to remain as she was. Inwardly he shrugged and sighed. There was nothing he could say or do. It was and always had been her choice.

"I understand, Serana," he said kindly, and was proud of himself for not allowing his disappointment to show, either in his face or his voice. "Let me send word to Jorrvaskr and throw a few things into a backpack and we can be on our way within the hour."

"Thanks," she said, looking at him now, relief in her eyes. "Thanks for understanding how much this means to me."

"Hey, I'm an understanding guy," he grinned.

Vilkas was disappointed, but said nothing more than, "We'll wait for you here at Jorrvaskr, Harbinger. Come back safely."

The children were also disappointed that their father was leaving once again, but with Tamsyn there, they were less fearful than before. By the time Marcus and Serana had repacked their backpacks, the sun was already lowering in the west. The Dragonborn kissed his wife and hugged his children and walked down to the stable area to call Odahviing.

"What was the note Tamsyn gave you?" Serana asked.

Marcus gave a helpless chuckle. "She saw those pages I found last time we were there," he explained. "Said it was part of something called _Jiub's Opus,_ and wrote down where I can find the other pages. She made me pack the ones I found before, as well."

"Why?"

"Apparently, if I give them all back to Jiub, who's wandering around down there, he gives me something in return that Tamsyn wants badly."

"And that is…?" Serana prompted.

"Beats the hell out of me," Marcus grinned. "I'm just the messenger boy."

"She never really does explain how she knows all these things, does she?" Serana said exasperatedly, shaking her head.

"No," Marcus agreed, hiding a private smile. "She surely doesn't."

The trip back to Volkihar Keep took only a couple of hours, instead of days, and Odahviing was able to perch on the balcony that connected Valerica's tower to the main part of the castle. The door leading to that section had long ago been destroyed by Harkon in a fit of temper, so there was really only one way to go from here, and that was directly into Valerica's study.

As they entered, they could see the portal, still glowing purple in the center of the floor.

"That could be dangerous, if someone fell into it without being soul-trapped," Marcus observed.

Serana gave a weak smile. "It's not likely Mother will be having too many visitors here. Come on, let's hurry!"

Marcus hesitated as she mounted the stairs and paused at the balcony in front of the portal. "I won't have any trouble getting back in, will I?" he asked.

"I don't think so," Serana mused. "Something Mother told me once comes to mind. The longer time you spend in the Soul Cairn, the more it rubs off on you. We paid your way in with a soul gem. And even though you took the gem back, part of the Soul Cairn filled the void within you where that part of your soul had been. So you should be able to come back to it any time you want."

"Well, I won't be buying a summer home here, that's for sure," Marcus drawled, climbing the steps and joining her. "Let me test the waters first, though, before I jump in." He descended the first two or three steps and waited. Nothing happened. Feeling more confident, he stepped down three more. Still nothing. He came back up.

"It looks like it's okay," he said. "Let's go get your Mother."

"And find those other pages," Serana reminded him.

"Oh yeah," he groused. "I was hoping I could say I forgot."

"She'd only send you back, you know," Serana grinned. "And you'd do it for her, wouldn't you?"

"I'm going to plead the Fifth on that," he scowled drily, which in turn led him to explaining the system of government where he had come from – he still hadn't told her it wasn't in Tamriel – and the basic rights of the people who lived there.

"So nobody in your country ever had to confess anything that wasn't true, or admit to anything if it meant they could be persecuted for it?" she marveled as they made their way through Parish One looking for the pages of _Jiub's Opus._

"That's right," he nodded. "It's called 'self-incrimination,' and our laws were built in such a way as to protect the innocent."

"But a guilty person could use that law to claim innocence," Serana pointed out.

"That's why we had a court system, with lawyers representing both the accused and the victim, and a jury of twelve peers – people who came from the same background as the accused. A judge is appointed to preside over the proceedings to make sure that both sides follow the law."

"And how do these twelve people decide who's right and who's wrong?" she asked.

"Evidence gets presented on both sides," he explained. "The jury and the judge review all the evidence, and then the jury makes the decision if the accused is guilty or not guilty of the crime."

Serana blinked as Marcus reached into a nook of the dividing wall to retrieve another page of the _Opus._ "The jury decides?" she frowned, puzzled. "Not the judge?"

Marcus shook his head. "Nope. His job is to make sure the law is followed. In a small-claims court, where it's not a matter of life and death, there is no jury, and the judge decides then, but on the bigger cases it's all on the jury's shoulders."

Serana's head was doing some shaking of its own. "It sounds…complicated."

Marcus chuckled as he led them back to the gate through the barrier wall. "It is," he agreed. "And it's far from perfect. Short of having someone who can read minds and tell right away if someone is innocent or guilty, we've come up with this system."

"But what if the jury says someone's guilty, and it turns out they're not?"

"I won't deny that's happened," Marcus said. "I said it wasn't perfect. That's why being a juror is a very heavy responsibility. You're part of a very small group of people who have to decide whether someone is innocent or guilty, and whether their crime is terrible enough to lock them away in prison for life or have them executed. It's not a duty that many people are eager to perform."

"Have you done this?" Serana asked curiously.

"What, served on a jury?" he asked. "Yes, I have. But it wasn't a grand jury. We weren't deciding if someone was guilty or innocent of murder. We heard several cases over the course of a week, and the worst we had to decide on was vandalism, shoplifting and traffic violations."

Serana fell silent. This explained much of character of the man she knew as Marcus Dragonborn. From the first few days of her acquaintance with him she knew he was a fair man, willing to believe the best in people until he was proved wrong. It showed in every endeavor he undertook. He might become impatient with stubbornness, and scathing when dealing with those who refused to change, but he always gave them that chance to change their minds, to see reason. It was the way in which he had dealt with her father, even knowing what he was. He had been willing to give Lord Harkon a pass and leave him in relative peace, if her father had simply recanted and gone back to living quietly in his castle.

She knew in her heart how it would end, and she didn't blame Marcus for doing what was necessary. Her father would never had reformed, would never have given up his dream of a world thrown into total darkness, in spite of the chaos that would have ensued. Her mother had been correct: if Harkon had succeeded in blotting out the sun, non-vampires across Tamriel – across all of Nirn – would have risen up against them. And they probably would have been led by the Dragonborn. Now her father was gone, and soon her Mother would return to Volkihar Keep. Where did that leave her? She couldn't stay with the Dawnguard and her participation in Marcus' plans to overthrow the Thalmor threat hinged on his co-conspirators accepting her presence among them. She sincerely doubted they would accept a vampire, no matter how well-behaved that vampire was.

But could she give up everything she had gained? She was stronger than any normal human; she could fly, if she chose to dissolve into a swarm of bats – not her preferred choice, admittedly. Flying on Odahviing's back was much more fun, now that she was used to it. Her conjuring skills were of the highest caliber, honed through centuries of practice, and she could draw the life-force out of her enemies, weakening them enough to kill them easily. As a full-blooded Daughter of Coldharbour, there were few who could stand against her in combat.

" _And what have you given up to attain these things?"_

It was Arch-Mage Tamsyn's quiet voice in her mind, echoing from the conversation they had had recently.

What had she given up? Brothers and sisters, like the Dragonborn's brood. Someone to fight and squabble with; someone to confide and conspire with; someone who, even if she was angry with them, would still have her back. A home, like Breezehome, tightly packed, but rollicking with the sounds of laughter, love and life. Love. Yes, the kind of love she saw shining in Marcus' eyes when he looked at his wife; the same love she saw in Tamsyn's when she looked back.

" _Is what you've given up worth what you've gained? Is it worth what you've lost?"_

Serana knew it was a question she would have to answer soon. But for now, as they wandered the Soul Cairn looking for the pages of the lost book, she pushed it to the back of her mind. She would deal with it later.

Time had no meaning in the Soul Cairn, but eventually, with Tamsyn's detailed note in hand, Marcus and Serana found the remaining pages of _Jiub's Opus,_ and after some diligent searching, found the soul himself, sitting at a campfire, staring thoughtfully into space, with quill, ink and parchment spread out in front of him. He was talking to himself.

"Now, what was it I said to that prisoner?" he frowned in thought. "'Stand up, there you go. You were dreaming…' Yes, that was it!"

He leaned over to dip his quill into the ink and began writing on the parchment.

"Uh…excuse me," Marcus began.

"Please don't bother me now," Jiub said exasperatedly, not looking up. "Can't you see I'm busy? I'm working on my next epic. I'm calling it 'The Miracles of Saint Jiub, the Eradicator of the Winged Menace.' A bit wordy, perhaps. I might have to shorten it a bit. We'll see what my publishers think. Anyway, you'll just have to come back later."

"We have something we think belongs to you," Serana said.

Jiub looked up then, his brow puckering. "Something of mine?" he echoed. "But I haven't – wait! Yes, yes I _did_ lose something!" He leaped to his feet and approached, snatching the manuscript out of Marcus' proffered hands.

"My _Opus!"_ Jiub exclaimed happily. "You found it! I can't believe I was so stupid to have lost this. Now I don't have to start all over again!"

"What exactly is this _Opus_ of yours?" Marcus asked, bemused. The Dunmer shade blinked at him.

"You're joking, right?" Jiub asked, his enthusiasm somewhat dampened in the presence of the uninitiated.

Serana and Marcus looked at each other and shook their heads.

"You've never heard of Saint Jiub the Magnificent?" the soul demanded. "Saint Jiub the Eradicator of the Winged Menace? Saint Jiub the Savior of Morrowind? No?"

"No," Marcus said, his tone flat. "But don't feel bad. My wife has heard about you—"

"Then she is a singularly enlightened person," Jiub announced bowing to Serana, "though I question her mental stability in saddling herself with a dullard for a husband."

Marcus bristled. The man was beginning to get on his nerves. He hadn't felt this strong a dislike on such short acquaintance since Septimus Signus.

"Wait," Serana said, "we're not married. I'm not his wife."

"Congratulations," the poet smiled. "I'm relieved for you. Still," Jiub continued, as Marcus felt his temper rising, "you _did_ recover my book for me, and I am grateful. I must repay such a valiant endeavor, though I'm not sure how. Oh, wait! I know! Here." He took an amulet from around his neck and presented it to Marcus, along with a bound book. Flipping open the cover, Marcus saw it was a bound copy of the pages he'd found.

"If you had this," he began, "then why were the loose pages such a loss?"

A slight sneer flitted across Jiub's face, but he quickly repressed it. "These are my original notes," he said, as if that explained it. "I don't expect you to understand, but I imagine your wife would. Your _real_ wife." Here he gave a knowing wink, and Marcus didn't realize he'd taken a step forward until he felt the vice-like grip Serana had on his arm. He'd forgotten how strong she was.

"Come on, Marcus," she urged. "We're done here. We did what we came to do. Let's go find my mother now."

He allowed himself to be dragged away. For his part, Saint Jiub the Magnificent never knew how close he came to becoming Saint Jiub the Well and Truly Dead. When Serana glanced back over her shoulder, the Dunmer soul was happily sorting through his loose-leaf notes muttering to himself.

"When I re-write these pages, they'll see what they missed…"

In silence, Marcus and Serana made their way across the lightning-blasted terrain toward the Boneyard where they had left Valerica, weeks before. She was not surprised to see them again, and said as much.

"You expected this?" Marcus asked, not entirely gratified by her reaction.

"I try to prepare for any eventuality," Valerica replied drily, "especially where Harkon is concerned. But you appear to have something on your mind. I doubt you would have returned to the Soul Cairn so soon if you didn't have questions."

"I have lots of questions," Marcus allowed with a small smile, "but I don't think you can answer them. We just came back to let you know that Harkon is dead."

 _Now_ Valerica appeared visibly shaken. "What?" she gasped, disbelief written all over her face. "Are you certain?"

"About as certain as I can be about anything," Marcus replied soberly. "He died by my hand."

Valerica made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a long sigh of relief, slowly released. "Then it's over at last," she said quietly. "I see nothing preventing my return to Tamriel. Allow me to gather my things, and I will head back with you to Castle Volkihar."

"We have a stop to make along the way, if you don't mind," Marcus replied. "I need to do a favor for a friend."

Valerica looked at her daughter questioningly, but Serana shrugged. Whatever Marcus had in mind, he had kept to himself.

But as they left the Boneyard and turned right towards the place on their map marked, "The Black Bethel", she began to have her suspicions.

"Wait here," the Dragonborn told them, before pulling out a few soul husks from his pack and mounting the stairs above. They were not witness to what he did, but the percussion of his Shout thundered across the Cairn.

" _SOGAAL FUS HILV!"_ he roared intermittently, between the ringing strikes of something that sounded like a hammer on a bell. After several moments, they heard an enormous crashing noise, as if a huge glass chandelier had plummeted to the ground, shattering into millions of splinters. Scattering down the stairs bounced hundreds of purple shards, and Valerica paled even further.

"He can't have…" she whispered.

"Can't have what, Mother?" Serana asked nervously.

"He's destroyed one of the enormous Soul Gems used by the Masters themselves," her mother barely managed to say. "I never imagined it was possible!"

Marcus returned a few moments later, grim-faced.

"That should get their attention," he muttered. He dug into his pack and handed them several potions.

"Shock resistance," he said shortly. "We're going to need them. Drink one, and let's head to the Black Minster. I've got an appointment to keep."

The potions were definitely needed. All the power of the Ideal Masters was unleashed now, targeting them as they ran the gauntlet between the Bethel and the Minster. Bonemen, mistmen and wrathmen pulled themselves out of the ground all around them to attack. Valerica summoned storm atronachs and Serana used her fireball staff to fend them off while Marcus blew them apart with his Unrelenting Shout, or simply cleaved through them with his dragonbone and Akaviri blades.

" _LOK VAH KOOR!"_ the Dragonborn Shouted, and for a few minutes the lightning strikes lessened, but did not disappear completely. Then the Shout would fade and the bolts of electricity would hit so close he could smell ozone and feel the hairs on the back of his neck lift in response.

Serana got hit by a blast when they were halfway there, and the impact lifted her up and threw her several yards away, where she lay, unmoving. But the potion of shock resistance, the strongest Tamsyn could make, was still in effect. A shot that would have killed an unprotected human merely stunned her, and she soon recovered enough to get to her feet and rejoin the fight. And fight it was. The corporeal adversaries didn't slack off until they entered the Minster itself, and while the lightning continued to lash out, at least in here they were protected.

"I'm going to ask you two ladies once more to wait here until I'm done," he said. "I don't want the Ideal Masters holding the two of you hostage while I try to reason with them."

"Just what, exactly, are you trying to do, Dragonborn?" Valerica demanded. "The Ideal Masters are powerful beings, not to be trifled with."

"They're also deceitful and corrupt," Marcus said. "They'd far rather screw someone over than honor their bargains. That's going to stop."

"And you think you can stop it?" Lady Volkihar asked dubiously, eyebrows disappearing into her hairline once more.

"I'm going to try," Marcus promised. "Stay here. With any luck, I'll be back shortly."

"But what—" Valerica protested. Her daughter put a hand on her arm.

"Hush, Mother," she admonished. "Marcus knows what he's doing. We have to trust him."

Before he reached the top of the Minster, Marcus ate another of the soul husks he'd brought with him. As he emerged on the top of the roof he took note of the fact that while the lightning was still striking down around the building, it wasn't actually hitting the roof itself, above which was suspended the giant, purple soul gem, similar to the one he had broken at the Bethel.

"Alright, you thrice-damned Masters," Marcus shouted now, not using the Thu'um. "You know who I am and you know what I can do. You're going to talk to me, in a manner that I can understand, or I'm going to shatter each and every one of these gargantuan soul gems you've set up so nicely around this Cairn."

The soul gem before him intensified its light, and Marcus could tell it was desperately trying to drain him of his life-force. But the soul husk he'd eaten protected him, and the light turned a frustrating shade of violet-red.

 _Very well, Marcus Dragonborn,_ a Voice finally rasped. It seemed to come from the gem itself, and seemed to be not just one voice, but a chorus. _State your business, but know that while you may be able to harm this Aspect of Our Being, it is not the summation of who We are. In our purest form, We are impervious to physical assault. Why have you returned? Was not your earlier visit enough of a victory for you?_

"Nice to see you acknowledge it as a victory," Marcus replied blandly. "But no, to answer your question. It wasn't enough. You see, there's some unfinished business between us that needs to be addressed."

 _Such as?_

"Such as your claim on the soul of Valerica, for one," Marcus said. "You tricked her into becoming imprisoned here. I liberated her, but for reasons of her own she chose to stay until such time as it was safe for her to return to Nirn. I'm just making sure you aren't going to renege on this."

 _Valerica is free to leave any time she chooses,_ the Voice said in a bored tone. _If that is your only reason for returning, We are done here._

"It's not the only reason, and you damned well know it," Marcus growled, munching on another soul husk. He had to admit, he was actually coming to like them. They reminded him of a similarly-shaped snack food he used to eat by the bag full; of course, those were much smaller, and loaded with salt. Salt might help the taste of these.

 _Make your point,_ the Voice demanded impatiently.

"First of all, I want the souls of the dead here released – the good people, that is to say; the ones who were destined for Aetherius or Sovngarde, but who – through no fault of their own – ended up soul-trapped. The evil souls you can keep. They deserve their fate here. I'm sure you know which ones are which."

 _That is a difficult request to fulfil. The souls are what sustain Us. Releasing them would deny mages access to the energy required to recharge their staves, and fighters their weapons. Your own blades would become less effective without them._

"That's bullshit and you know it," Marcus growled. "I know for fact that the souls that end up here only come here _after_ the soul gem in question has been used. It's high time you guys went on a diet, so stop blowing smoke up my ass."

There was silence for a long moment, and Marcus could imagine the Ideal Masters must have been frantically scrambling to figure out a way around his demands. Or perhaps they were just trying to figure out what he meant by his colloquialism.

 _Are you finished, Dragonborn?_ the Voice rasped finally. It didn't sound pleased at all, and he noticed they hadn't exactly agreed to anything yet. He wasn't going to let them off the hook until they did.

"Not quite," Marcus replied evenly. "I want you to release Durnehviir from his indentured servitude here," Marcus said, "and restore his life you stole from him – his real life. I know you can do it."

 _Impossible!_ the Voice said flatly. _The dragon is dead. He belongs here. His soul has already been pledged in servitude to Us._

"Again, because you tricked him into it," Marcus gritted out. "You promised him necromantic power if he would guard the one known as Valerica until her death. But you deliberately didn't tell him she was a vampire and was already dead. Not to put too fine a point on it, but your contract with him was null and void the day you struck it. He knows that now, and he's not too happy about being duped by you bozos."

 _We are not concerned with how you or the dragon feels about Our methods in getting what We want,_ the Voice dismissed.

"Oh, good!" Marcus said with a feral grin. "Then you won't be concerned with my methods to get what I want," Marcus said, summoning his vital essences.

" _SOGAAL FUS HILV!"_ he bellowed, and the huge soul gem hanging above his head shuddered and pinged, as hairline cracks spread across its facets. He was rather proud of that Shout. It was the first one he had ever thought of on his own. It was an inspired idea, really, and one that he had thought about carefully ever since summoning Durnehviir in the Forgotten Vale. The few unused lesser dragon souls he still retained gave up their knowledge as he put together the three words he felt best epitomized what he wished to accomplish: s _ogaal,_ meaning 'gem,' and _hilv,_ meaning to pause or break. In this case, his intention was to break. Combined with _fus,_ which he already knew, it was the best way he could think of to get the attention of the Ideal Masters. Judging from the augmented attacks against them on the way here, he felt safe in guessing that it had worked.

 _WAIT!_ the Ideal Masters cried. _STOP! Stay your Voice, Dragonborn! Perhaps We can come to some agreement here that would be beneficial to all concerned._ The Voice, which before had carried a tone of boredom and finality, had now risen in sheer panic.

"No," Marcus said flatly, still poised to strike. "No deals, no bargains. You guys don't exactly have a great track record. I'd sooner bargain with Clavicus Vile. We do this my way or no way at all."

There was silence for a long moment as the Ideal Masters considered their options. Marcus munched down another soul husk while he waited.

"What's it to be?" he demanded finally, after several minutes ticked by. "Either you agree to my terms or I start gem-cutting…my way!"

 _We…agree...We have no choice. The dragon has outlived his usefulness to Us, and We have no desire to retain him any longer._ There was a simmering undercurrent of hostility in the tone, but Marcus was satisfied. They didn't want a dissatisfied, potentially hostile dragons tearing up their Cairn.

"Good," he said, not caring if they saw him smirking. "Now you know how it feels when the shoe's on the other foot. I'll expect to see a much healthier Durnehviir the next time I call him. And I'll be letting Arkay know about your agreement to free the souls imprisoned here unjustly. I'm sure he'll be delighted to hear it." Well, certainly Florentius would be delighted. "Just don't make me have to come back here to enforce it. You won't like it."

 _A warning, Dragonborn,_ the Ideal Masters rumbled. _Do not dare to return here. You will never leave._

"I wouldn't bet the farm on that," Marcus said in a dangerous voice. "But as it happens, I can't see the backside of this purple nightmare soon enough. It's been…interesting…doing business with you, gentlemen. I'd like to say it's been a little slice of heaven…but it hasn't. Adios!"

He descended the steps and returned to where he left Serana and Valerica waiting.

"Is everything okay?" Serana asked. "We couldn't hear what was being said."

"It's all good," Marcus said. "They're not going to prevent you from leaving, Valerica." He didn't tell them about his other arrangements.

"Thank the Maker!" Valerica murmured. "Now, let's get out of here before they change their minds."

"I don't think they'll do that," Marcus smiled to himself. "Not if they know what's good for them."

"Overconfidence is a dangerous mistake, when communing with the Ideal Masters," Valerica warned him. "Do not make the same errors I did when I first came here."

"I'll remember that," Marcus promised. "But a little healthy confidence in one's own abilities isn't such a bad thing to have."

"I thought that once myself," she intoned darkly. She said little more as they emerged from the Minster and made their way back to the portal. True to their word, the Ideal Masters withheld any further attacks against them, and soon they were climbing the stairs back into Valerica's study.

She let out a noise that seemed like a sigh.

"Ah," she murmured. "It feels good to be home once more!" Turning to Marcus she gave him a long, steady look. "I never thought I would say this, but I am grateful to you, Dragonborn, for all that you've done. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. If you ever need alchemical ingredients or potions, you have but to ask."

"My wife is the one who's really into that sort of thing," Marcus demurred. "But I'll pass it along. Take care of yourself, Lady Volkihar. Serana?" he asked, "are you coming with me?"

"I promised to help you at Ysgramor's Tomb, didn't I?" she countered, a bit too brightly.

"Serana?" her mother frowned. "After all this time, you're leaving me here alone? I thought—"

"I'll come back in a little while, Mother," the girl said firmly. "There are…things…we need to discuss. But first, I promised Marcus I'd help him seek the cure for his lycanthropy." She wouldn't meet her mother's eyes, and Valerica's narrowed. Whatever else she may have thought, however, she let it pass.

"You're a woman now, daughter," she replied. "You have your whole life ahead of you, free from the fear of your father's madness. Just come back to see me from time to time."

"I will, Mother," Serana promised, and briefly hugged Valerica, though it was clear to Marcus she was merely going through the expected motions. There seemed little actual warmth between the two women.

They had to descend through the castle tower and emerged in the courtyard after pulling a switch inside the stairwell that opened up the moondial. Once outside, Marcus called for Durnehviir, much to Serana's surprise.

"Not Odahviing?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. "I'm not really sure I'd want to ride on Durnehviir, no offense meant, because…you know…"

Marcus chuckled. "He _has_ let himself go in recent centuries, hasn't he? But seriously, I wanted to be sure the Ideal Master didn't renege on their promise."

A warping sound was heard, and suddenly Durnehviir was there, no longer the zombie dragon he had once been.

"You have called and I have come, Qahnaarin," he rumbled, then suddenly stopped in surprise and rose, flexing his wings. "What is this sorcery?" he demanded in disbelief. "Can it be that I live once more?"

Marcus let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding until then. "It's true, Durnehviir," he grinned. "I had a nice, long chat with the Ideal Masters and pointed out a few things to them."

"How long will this _yor laas,_ this new life of mine last?" the gray-green dragon wondered.

Marcus shrugged. "I have no idea. As long as dragons do, I suppose, if the Masters don't welch out of it. I would suggest, however, that you avoid necromancy for a while, and don't trust any deal the Masters might offer you from now on."

"Indeed!" Durnehviir agreed. "My contacts with them will be severed from this day forward. I am eager to fly the skies of Keizaal once more. May I take you somewhere, Qahnaarin?"

The Dragonborn looked at Serana and grinned. "I was hoping you'd offer."

* * *

It was night when they reached Whiterun, and Durnehviir set them down carefully just outside the stable area before taking off and roaring his joy to the night stars. Gerduin whinnied and snorted nervously. It seemed she would never get used to dragons dropping down out of the sky near her.

Tamsyn greeted them as they entered Breezehome, her eyes meeting Marcus' expectantly.

"I've got it," he said, pulling a sour face. "But don't ever ask me to meet with that pompous windbag again!" He handed her the amulet and the book, and she squealed in delight, throwing her arms around his neck. She had to reach a long way, and he assisted her by hoisting her up off the floor.

"I love you!" Tamsyn exclaimed, kissing him. "Thank you for doing that for me, dearest!"

He set her down. "I guess it wasn't so bad. What are you laughing at, little missy?"

"I'm just remembering—" Serana began.

"Yeah, well, let's not, okay?" he cut in, grumbling. "'Saint Jiub' my ass. What an arrogant S.O.B.! Probably thinks he's the second coming of Martin Septim."

Tamsyn said nothing, but her eyes danced, and Serana was certain the Arch-Mage would want a full report from her.

"So you're headed to Ysgramor's Tomb tomorrow?" Tamsyn asked demurely now.

"Yes," Marcus nodded. "The sooner I deal with this, the sooner things can get back to normal."

Serana grew quiet, and the vampire girl soon excused herself, claiming fatigue. Tamsyn asked if she was hungry, but Serana told her she still had half of the blood potion bottle in her pack.

"A little of that goes a long way," she assured her hostess. She missed the look of concern that passed between the Dragonborn and his wife, retreating to the room in the basement where she preferred to sleep.

She was quiet most of the next day, as they traveled along the road north out of Whiterun. Sinding had insisted on accompanying them, in an effort to pay back a debt Marcus insisted he didn't owe. Alesan had also asked to come along, and his father surprised him by agreeing.

"As Harbinger, I think this would be a good time to see how much you've learned," Marcus said honestly. "It's not your official trial. You'll do that by yourself with one of the Circle going with you. For now, watch and learn."

Both Sinding and Vilkas had thrown curious looks at the intricately carved scroll case on his back, but Marcus didn't offer any explanations, and neither Companion dared to ask.

Aela scouted ahead of them while Sinding brought up the rear. Farkas and Vilkas stayed closer, but even they constantly sniffed the air or cocked their heads to determine if a random sound they heard was a threat or not. Marcus had hoped they could have traveled by carriage, but there were too many of them to fit comfortably in Bjorlam's wagon. Besides, Gerduin always shied whenever one of the Circle – or indeed Marcus himself – came too close.

So they walked. It would take longer this way, Marcus knew, but thankfully he was no longer under a time crunch. They would finish this when they finished it.

 _And then what?_ he asked himself. _What are you gonna do, Dragonborn, when you finally kick Hircine out of your head?_

"Finally retire, perhaps," he muttered under his breath.

"What did you say, Dad?" Alesan asked.

"I said the sun's getting higher," Marcus said quickly.

"That's not what I heard," Vilkas whispered on his other side.

"Quiet, you," the Dragonborn murmured. Vilkas only grinned and returned his attention to the road.

They had walked almost to the Nightgate Inn when the attack came. Fireballs exploded around them seemingly from nowhere, and Aela howled, immediately going wolf. Farkas and Vilkas soon followed, their improved low-light vision and keen sense of smell quickly pinpointing three figures in gold robes, wearing masks that looked like squids, with carved tentacles curling around the bottom edge. Marcus realized he'd seen these before.

"Cultists!" he snapped. "Serana, watch out for their fireballs! They don't care who gets caught in them. Sinding, Alesan, use your bows and take cover where you can!" He looked around for Aela and the Wolf Twins and found them already closing with the cultists, who were separating to try and flank the Dragonborn and his companions.

"Aela!" he called, "herd them this way!"

"You've got it, Harbinger!" she whuffed, and began to dodge in and out of the path of the cultist closest to her, snapping at the woman's heels, driving her slowly back towards Marcus, Alesan and Sinding.

"AIEEE!"

Marcus heard Serana shriek as another fireball exploded near her.

" _SERANA!"_ he bellowed.

"I'm on it, Harbinger!" Sinding called and swerved away to help the vampire girl.

"I'll go too, Dad!" Alesan offered.

For a brief moment, Marcus hesitated. These were mages, from a cult that worshipped someone named Miraak, and he knew firsthand how formidable they were. Alesan was only thirteen, soon to be fourteen, and yet he already had the muscle tone and body of a young man only a few years older. Shortly, he nodded, knowing Sinding would need help in assisting Serana.

"Be careful," he admonished, warming at the grateful look his son gave him.

"I will, Dad. Thanks!" He took off at a long-legged lope that quickly covered the distance. Marcus didn't see him join the others because at that moment he was immolated in a fiery blast that obscured everything around him. For one brief instant, he thought he'd ended up in the Hell he used to believe in back in Gaea.

"Gah!" he cried, squeezing his eyes shut to protect them, and fumbling with the catch on his belt pouch where he kept resistance potions.

" _AAAAHHH!"_

The scream didn't belong to any of his friends, Marcus knew, and when his vision cleared he saw Vilkas and Farkas tearing away at the cultist they'd brought down.

A yip and a whine told him Aela had been hit, but not seriously. Still, she looked like a pincushion for icicles when he spotted her. The cultist, however, didn't realize how close he was to the 'false' Dragonborn he despised.

' _False', eh?_ Marcus thought. _Time to show them the reality of my_ thu'um.

"You like to play with fire and ice, eh?" he taunted. "Try manipulating time for a change. _TIID KLO UL!"_

The _thu'um_ rippled out as Aela nimbly leaped out of the way. Caught in the effects of the Shout regardless, Marcus paused a moment to appreciate the gracefulness of her slow-motion jump before launching into a devastating two-weapon attack on the cultist. When time caught up with itself, the man dropped to the ground. From his perspective, Marcus was certain, it must have seemed as though the 'false' Dragonborn was suddenly imbued with horrific speed.

Sinding and Alesan helped Serana finish off the last cultist and returned to where Marcus waited for the Circle.

"They had this on them, Dad," Alesan said, handing him a parchment note. "Who's Miraak? Why is he after you?"

"I have no idea, son," Marcus answered honestly. "And at some point I'm going to have to look into this. But not today. We have other things to accomplish right now."

Alesan nodded, but insisted on keeping one of the masks as a souvenir. The bodies of all three cultists were looted of any potential valuables before the group continued on towards the Nightgate Inn. They stayed the night there, which pleased the innkeeper, Hadring, no end.

"I don't get very many customers," he said, and though he was at first suspicious that such a large group might cause trouble, he warmed up to them as the evening wore on and they kept quietly to themselves, though he did tend to shy away from Serana and her glowing orange eyes. Though she attempted to disguise it, the fact that it bothered her did not escape the Dragonborn's notice.

The following morning they continued on their way to Winterhold, passing Fort Kastav on the way. Ralof was still here, overseeing the ruse of tensions between Stormcloaks and Imperials.

"I don't mind telling you, Marcus," he said confidentially. "I'd rather be out here than in Blackreach." He shuddered. "I was rotated there not long ago. I don't envy Hadvar's stint in that place!"

"He's there now?" Marcus asked, curious. Ralof nodded.

"I got a letter from him before he went." The Nord warrior laughed. "He wasn't looking forward to it any more than I did, but we all take our turns there. Besides, spending time in there training with Imperials and Reachfolk only reinforces what we're doing out here: keeping up the pretense of open war so the Thalmor don't suspect anything."

"You're a good man, Ralof," Marcus grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now, let me introduce you to my younger son. Alesan!" he called.

They didn't spend much time at Fort Kastav. Marcus was eager to put as many miles behind them as possible before they lost the light. They trudged into Winterhold later that evening and entered the Frozen Hearth, where Dagur and Haran greeted Marcus warmly. It was clear to Serana and the others that Marcus was a frequent visitor here.

"Some of your good cooking, Haran, and rooms for the night," he called. "We'll be leaving in the morning."

"Not going up to the College, Dragonborn?" the innkeeper asked.

"My wife's at home at the moment," Marcus told Dagur. "But I'll probably head up there after supper, to check in with them. Tamsyn would expect it of me. We'll be staying here, though."

True to his word, Marcus climbed the bridge across the Sea of Ghosts to the pinnacle upon which the College precariously perched. He made his way to the Arcaneum first, knowing that Urag seldom slept. He was certain, however, the old orc wouldn't mind being wakened for this instance.

"You're kidding, right?" the grizzled mer rumbled, reverently touching the case containing the Elder Scroll. "You really want to give this up? I mean, it's worth a small fortune."

"I'm not kidding," Marcus grinned. "I really want to give it up, and the money isn't that important to me."

"Don't let Enthir hear you say that," Urag gro-Shub drawled. "I can't thank you enough for this, Dragonborn," he continued. "I'll be sure to take very good care of it. This will certainly give our scholars quite a bit to study for a long time to come."

"Better get some Moth Priests to sign up as faculty, then," Marcus shuddered, remembering his own experiences.

"Ha, you're funny," Urag deadpanned. "Speaking of Enthir, he's back. As long as you're here, you'd better go see him. You'll find him in the Arch-Mage's quarters."

"In Tamsyn's rooms?" Marcus blinked, then scowled. "What's he doing there?" he demanded suspiciously.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Dragonborn," Urag growled. "He's not doing anything stupid. He and Tolfdir take it in turns when the Arch-Mage is gone to stay there in case any of the students, scholars or faculty need assistance. Your wife insisted on setting it up that way."

Feeling foolish, Marcus gave a curt nod and headed towards the stairs that led up to the Arch-Mage's rooms.

"And Marcus," Urag called. He turned back. The old orc hefted the Elder Scroll. "Thanks again for this." A genuine smile split the lean, weathered face, and Marcus felt himself smiling back.

"No problem, Urag."

Enthir spun quickly, fire in both hands as Marcus came up the stairs.

"Whoa, whoa!" the Dragonborn called, hands held up defensively. "It's me, Enthir, Marcus. Douse the flames. What's going on?"

"I'm glad you're here, Dragonborn," the wily Bosmer said. "I need you to get a message to the Arch-Mage as soon as you can. I didn't dare put anything in writing because of Illarion hanging around here."

"Does this have something to do with your trip to Valenwood?" Marcus asked.

"Shh!" Enthir hushed him, putting a finger to his lips and looking around. "I can't trust anybody around here. I've even been suspicious of Tolfdir lately. That shows you how paranoid I've become."

"Alright, hold on a moment," Marcus said. He breathed out his Aura Whisper and found no one close enough to overhear anything Enthir might tell him.

"Thank you!" the Bosmer aide said gratefully. "I probably should have done some kind of Detect Life spell, except I don't know it. I suppose I could have asked Tolfdir, except – as I believe I've already stated – I've begun to suspect everyone of being a Thalmor spy."

"Slow down and tell me what you know," Marcus insisted.

And Enthir did just that. He explained to Marcus the situation in Valenwood and Elsweyr, as well as Black Marsh.

"The Dominion is far more able to put warm bodies on the front lines than we thought," he said. "I tried contacting some of my former…associates in Valenwood, only to discover they had already been rounded up by the Dominion. I know the Arch-Mage sent J'Zargo to Elsweyr, but I didn't have much faith he'd discover anything, so I did a little investigating of my own. From there I slipped over the borders of Cyrodiil to Black Marsh to see what the Argonians are up to. They appear to be mobilizing."

"Where?" Marcus asked. "In Black Marsh?"

"Everywhere," Enthir said. "Troops of Argonian marauders are taking ship at Lilmoth and heading north. I was able to find out from their manifest that their destination is Necrom in Morrowind. From there, they're supposed to travel across the narrow neck of land to the Inner Sea and sail up to Blacklight."

"Which would put them within striking distance of Windhelm," Marcus nodded. "How reliable is this information of yours?" he asked.

"Well, I picked it off the dead body of a Dominion officer," Enthir shrugged.

"Poor guy," Marcus said, without emotion. "How did he die?"

"With honor, for the glory of the Dominion, I'm sure," Enthir grinned. "Can you get this information to the Arch-Mage? I have more, but I'd rather tell her myself, as soon as she can get here."

"I'll tell her," Marcus promised. "I'm on my way up north on personal business, but I should be home in a day or two. I'm sure she'll want to get back up here as soon as she knows."

"We need to stop that assault," Enthir said, urgency in his voice. "With the Empire keeping up pretenses, this is just the sort of thing the Dominion would try to see if Imperial forces come to Windhelm's aid."

"And if they don't, to keep up the ruse, it would break the alliance we've so carefully put together," Marcus nodded. "I know. When did the Argonians leave Lilmoth?"

"Last week," Enthir said. "I flew back as quickly as I could."

"You _flew?"_ Marcus blinked. "I thought only Tamsyn had—" He broke off as Enthir held up his hand, displaying an unremarkable silver ring set with a sapphire.

"This was her first prototype," the Bosmer explained. "The one she wore to Sovngarde with you. She made a stronger one of plain silver that she…augmented with other powers." He smiled and shook his head. "She's something else, that wife of yours. I've rarely met anyone as powerful as her. She's the best thing that's ever happened to this College since I've been here…and I've been here a long time!"

"I'm not going to argue with you," Marcus chuckled. "I'm her number one fan."

He left Enthir with reaffirmation he would relay the message to Tamsyn. As he crossed the central courtyard, he saw a figure in familiar black robes striding purposefully towards him. This must be Illarion, Tamsyn's personal pain in the ass.

"You there," the Altmer called. "Where will I find the Arch-Mage?"

Marcus was startled for a moment at the man's audacity, then realized he clearly hadn't recognized the Dragonborn.

"Isn't she in Cyrodiil?" Marcus asked naively. "That's what I heard."

"Idiot!" the Thalmor advisor spat. "The Arch-Mage left Cyrodiil two weeks ago. It was assumed she would return directly to her College."

Marcus shrugged. "Well, you know what happens when you assume," he said blandly. "Sorry I can't help you." He turned to leave and made it almost to the gate when Illarion called out to him.

"Wait! Don't I know you?"

Marcus grinned to himself. "Nope," he shot back, _and I intend to keep it that way._ He didn't hurry and didn't look back, but he felt a pair of narrowed, slanted eyes boring into his back.

 _He'll figure it out sooner rather than later, I'm afraid,_ he told himself. _There aren't too many people in the world who wear dragonplate armor._

The only thing better than dragonplate – at least as far as heavy armor went – was Daedric armor, and short of stealing it off a dead Daedra, he didn't have much chance of acquiring any just to remain anonymous. Well, he'd just have to remain alert and try to stay one jump ahead of the Dominion.

He said nothing to the others when he returned to the Frozen Hearth. The Companions were loyal to him, but his battle against the Thalmor wasn't their fight. He wouldn't risk endangering the guild by bringing them into it, though some, like Vilkas, had already mentioned an interest in striking a blow against the Dominion. Where Vilkas led, his brother usually followed. For now, Marcus felt it was best to keep the Companions out of the Dominion's sights. Later, it might be a different story.

* * *

They started out early the next morning, and once more Marcus winced as the icy grip of the Sea of Ghosts threatened to freeze off his most favored parts.

 _At least I'll have_ one _child of my blood, in spite of this,_ he thought. He hadn't told Alesan, Sofie or Lucia yet. He and Tamsyn decided to wait until she was a little further along before making the announcement to anyone. It might be a good idea, he reflected, to make a family trip out to Riften to see Blaise and then tell them all at once.

Thinking of the child to come got him across the rest of the inlet. He wondered if Tamsyn knew whether it was a boy or a girl yet, and decided he didn't care one way or the other. As long as both she and the baby were healthy and safe, that was all that mattered.

"Whoo! That's colder than I remembered!" Alesan yelped.

"You were wearing fur last time," his father reminded him.

"What is this place?" Serana asked. She had been uncharacteristically quiet most of the time this trip. Marcus had put it down to her shyness around people she didn't know well, but he suspected now it was something different bothering the vampire girl. He wished she would just talk to him, but of course, that was impossible at the moment.

"This is the Tomb of Ysgramor, Serana," Alesan explained. "He was the Hero who came from Atmora thousands of years ago to settle in Skyrim. He brought his Five Hundred Companions with him, and they were the beginning of the Companions of Jorrvaskr as we know them today."

"Wasn't Ysgramor the one who wiped out the Snow Elves?" she asked, eyeing Marcus as she did so.

"Ye-es," he said slowly, slightly discomforted by her question. The look in her eyes was clear: what would Gelebor think of him associating with people descended from the ones who had almost annihilated the Knight-Paladin's race, forcing them to seek refuge with the Dwemer who betrayed them and caused the devolving of an entire people into the wretched beings Skyrim knew as the Falmer?

He didn't have an answer for that, and was glad she didn't demand one. He hadn't thought Serana to have been particularly empathic towards Gelebor and his kind, but he could see now he may have been mistaken. No wonder she was so quiet!

"That's right," Vilkas spoke now. "The Snow Elves attacked the city of Saarthal and destroyed it, murdering thousands of innocent men, women and children. Ysgramor and his Companions struck back, nearly wiping out all of the elves."

"But not all of them," Farkas put in, "because some of them are still here."

Aela rolled her eyes. Trust Farkas to point out the obvious.

"He _did_ say 'nearly,' Ice-Brain," she drawled. "Come on. Let's get in there and get this over with."

Marcus was inclined to agree. Now that they had come down to it, he wanted this whole sordid affair over.

"Are we going to have to fight all those Harbinger ghosts again?" Alesan asked.

"I was wondering that myself," Sinding admitted.

"I don't think so," Vilkas said. "We've already proved our worth to them."

"Serana hasn't," Alesan pointed out.

"Serana isn't a Companion," Aela stated. "She doesn't have to prove herself to anyone here. We all know what a formidable fighter she is."

A smile flickered over the vampire girl's face. "Thank you, Aela," she said softly.

"For what?" the red-haired huntress shrugged. "I only spoke the truth." But she smiled to take the sting out of her words, lest it sound like censure.

Marcus led the way in and found the hidden passage to the right of Ysgramor's statue remained open, as they had left it.

"It looks like he's supposed to be holding something," Serana commented, gazing up at the stone figure.

"His axe, Wuthraad, hangs in a place of honor at Jorrvaskr," Vilkas replied.

The side passage led them directly back to the inner tomb, where the cremains of the previous Harbingers, who hadn't been werewolves, were interred. It was at this point that Vilkas surprised Marcus by carefully and reverently pulling out a small urn from his backpack. They were Kodlak's cremains, he informed them.

"It's only right and fitting that we should place them here," he said, finding a niche large enough to hold the urn and bowing his head respectfully. The others stood in solemn silence, each saying a private prayer for Kodlak's soul, which Marcus already knew had found its way to Sovngarde, as the old man had wished.

"Now," the Wolf Twin continued after a few moments, "Farkas has the bag with the witches' heads. There are three heads and three of us. Who will go first?"

"You, Vilkas," Marcus said. "Farkas will follow you—"

"As he always does," Aela murmured. Marcus shot her a glare, but she merely grinned at him cheekily. "Am I wrong?"

"No, you're not," Farkas said. "I follow my brother so I'll always have his back."

Aela blushed and subsided, having been firmly put in her place.

 _You gotta watch the quiet ones,_ Marcus grinned privately. _They'll always surprise you._

Farkas pulled out one of the witches' heads and handed it to his brother. Vilkas took a deep breath and tossed the head into the brazier which still burned with intensely blue flames. As Kodlak had done before him, Vilkas doubled over and writhed before suddenly jerking back stiffly. The red wolf spirit emerged and began attacking the Wolf twin immediately. Farkas roared and advanced swinging his Skyforge steel blade vigorously.

Between the six of them, they quickly finished it off and Vilkas shook his head to clear it. He had been unable to assist much during the fight, requiring all his strength and concentration to keep the wolf from leaping back into him.

"Is it over?" he asked shakily.

"I think so," Marcus answered, concerned. It hadn't gone this way when they fought Kodlak's spirit-wolf. "Are you okay?"

"I…it's like waking up out of a dream," Vilkas confessed. "I can breathe more deeply now. I can't smell your heart beating, the way I used to. But my mind is…clear." He grinned openly. The first true smile Marcus could remember crossing his face. "This is a great service you've done for me, Harbinger. I will not soon forget."

"I'm next, then," Farkas said. "Give me one of those damned heads."

Aela silently handed one to him, almost as if in apology for her earlier taunt. He ruffled her head. "Thanks, Sister!" Marcus doubted anyone other than Farkas could have gotten away with ruffling Aela's head.

Farkas tossed the head into the fire, and if Vilkas' wolf was an easy fight, Farkas' wasn't. It was larger and more ferocious, and instead of turning on Farkas, it went for those it perceived to be the weakest ones in their 'pack,' Alesan and Sinding.

Taken by surprise, Marcus leaped across the intervening space just in time to tackle the spirit-wolf before it could sink its ethereal teeth into his son. Alesan had paled, but to give the young lad credit, he had held his ground and didn't flinch, sword and shield at the ready.

An ice spike sailed across the room, impaling itself in the wolf's side, but it barely took notice as it scrabbled to its feet and snapped at Marcus, who dodged nimbly enough out of the way for a man encased in dragonplate armor.

This fight took longer than the one with Vilkas' wolf, and they were all breathing heavy when it was over – except Serana, who didn't breathe, but even she was looking unsettled.

The larger of the Wolf Twins heaved a sigh of relief. He, at least, had been able to participate more than his brother had done.

"How do you feel?" Sinding asked him.

"It's like relaxing into a warm mug of spiced mead," Farkas grinned. "I'm losing aches I didn't know I had. This is how a warrior should feel," he continued, enthusiastically. "Alive and aware. Not clouded with thoughts of the hunt!"

Sinding nodded. "It was the same for me," he smiled.

They all turned expectantly to Marcus.

"Now it's your turn, Dad," Alesan said, holding out the last witch head.

But Marcus hesitated. Fighting Vilkas' wolf-spirit had been a warm-up, and Farkas' had been a warning. Now that he had come down to the moment, he was unsure and afraid of what Hircine might do. He didn't want to put his friends, and especially his son, at risk. But they had come all this way with him because they trusted and believed in him. To cure the twins and not himself would be a slap in their faces. Besides, he wouldn't be able to face Tamsyn if he chickened out now.

Taking a deep breath, he accepted the head from his son and tossed it into the blue flames.

Searing pain lanced through him as he felt something being ripped from his core. It wasn't anything that belonged to him, and yet it was a part of him. Stubbornly it clung to him, but he rejected it, pushed it away, forced it out of his mind. Unlike the spirit wolves he had occasionally summoned to fight for him, this wolf was bigger and redder than any of them. It was stronger, too, as it struck out with one massive paw, sending Alesan flying across the room.

Immediately the others set upon it; Vilkas and Farkas with their Skyforge steel, Sinding with his bow from a distance, and Serana with her ice spikes. Marcus desperately wanted to check on his son, but knew he had to take out the spirit wolf as quickly as possible. With dragonbone and Akaviri steel, he whirled and sliced into the beast before him with all the skill he had learned in the past three years of living and fighting in Skyrim.

But the wolf spirit seemed preternaturally strong. Marcus didn't remember Kodlak's being this hard to fight, and he suddenly worried if there was some Daedric influence going on here.

An evil chuckle emitted from the wolf spirit's gaping jaws.

" _Very perceptive of you, Dragonborn,"_ it said. _"You might have defeated my other hunters, but you belong to me, and I have no intention of letting you go easily, even if that means I have to kill each and every one of your Companions here – including your son!"_

A thrill of fear speared Marcus. Was it too late for Alesan? Did Hircine mean he had already—? No, he refused to believe that. It was just another page of deception that seemed characteristic of nearly every Daedra he had ever had the displeasure to encounter. Enraged, Marcus Shouted at the beast with a thu'um he had used only once before.

" _HUN KAAL ZOOR!"_

A warping sound behind the spirit made Hircine turn his head as a figure clad in ancient Nordic armor, bearing a cloth patch over one side of his face, stepped into view.

"By the gods…" Vilkas swore softly. "Is that who I think that is?"

"Hakon!" Marcus called. "I need help!"

" _And help you shall have, Dragonborn!"_ the Nord Hero trumpeted. _"My sword is yours!"_

"Kill the wolf!" Marcus directed, and Hakon One-Eye grinned as he advanced on the spirit.

" _You are no ordinary ghost,"_ Hakon intoned. _"I know Daedric influence when I see it!"_

After that, things became chaotic. The apparition, as Hakon pointed out, wasn't merely an ordinary spirit, such as Kodlak's, or the Wolf Twins' had been. If that had been all it was, they could have defeated it after a long, drawn-out fight. But this was a spirit inhabited by Hircine, which made it an aspect of the Daedra, and as such, was far stronger than any they had ever fought.

When he leaped, he cleared the brazier in one bound, ending up on the other side of the Tomb. When he struck with his over-sized paws, it sent them reeling. If they were unfortunate enough to get caught in Hircine's jaws, they were lucky if armor was the only thing he crushed. Serana kept her distance, throwing off a steady stream of electricity and ice spikes until her magicka ran low. She drew her glass sword at one point, but Marcus called her back.

"This isn't just a werewolf," he yelled at her above the noise. "This is an aspect of a Daedric prince. Keep your distance and let us do the close work."

"But I can't cast anymore spells right now, and I want to help!" she insisted.

"Here!" he said quickly, unshouldering his dragonbone bow and the quiver of ebony arrows. He dropped them to the floor and kicked them in her direction. "Just make sure you don't hit one of us!"

"I promise nothing!" she grinned, reminding him of their time in Darkfall Cavern and the Forgotten Vale.

From the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Alesan prop himself up on one elbow, shaking his head to clear it. Breathing a little easier now, he threw himself back into the fight.

It was brutal. Even with the numbers against him, Hircine put up a mighty struggle. Lashing out in all directions, each of the twins found themselves flung across the room to lie where they fell, dazed and disoriented. Sinding ran out of arrows and was forced to retreat, knowing he wasn't as skilled with his Skyforge steel blade as the Circle was.

"Take these," Serana offered, sidling over to him. "I'm sure Marcus won't mind. My magicka is recharged again." She handed him the bow and arrows.

"Thank you," the somber Nord said gratefully, and began to put them to good use.

For his part, Alesan put all of his knowledge and skills to the test. Hircine had caught the boy off guard with his first attack, but the Redguard lad was ready for him this time. A snap of Hircine's powerful jaws only screeched against the shield Alesan bashed into his face. A powerful swipe with a front paw, claws extended, swished through empty air as the boy ducked and followed through with a slice from his own Akaviri blade, a gift from Delphine on his last birthday.

Marcus was proud of his son that day, and made a decision in his own mind he felt sure the rest of the Circle wouldn't object to.

" _You_ will _be banished, Daedra!"_ Hakon bellowed, and indeed, there seemed to be something almost holy in the blade he wielded, because it seemed to cut deeper and made Hircine howl louder than any damage the rest of them were doing. Marcus kept his Shouts to the kind that would enhance his own fighting style. Though large, the Tomb was still too small for all of his friends to avoid an area of effect type of _thu'um,_ such as Marked for Death or Frost Breath. He employed the Slow Time, to give him a chance to attack more rapidly, but perhaps because Hircine was a Daedra, it didn't seem to affect him much.

" _Fool, Dragonborn!"_ he sneered. _"I am a Daedric Prince. I exist outside the limits of time."_

Gritting his teeth, Marcus said nothing, but waited patiently for the Shout to fade before he used Elemental Fury. He knew only the first two words; he hadn't found the third one yet. But it was enough to enhance his attacks in normal time.

A sickening crack to his right and a gasp from Aela told Marcus that Hircine's last attack had probably cracked a couple of ribs. Pain was etched on her face as she attempted to fight through her injury.

"Pull back!" he ordered her. "You'll do more harm to yourself than good here."

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak, but he barked at her in a thundering voice.

"I said, _'PULL BACK,'_ dammit!"

Startled, Aela retreated, submitting to her alpha male.

Angered beyond endurance, Marcus found an inner source of energy he'd never tapped before.

"This. Ends. Now!" he growled, and launched into a flurry of steel and dragonbone that few of the others had ever seen. Every attack by Hircine was countered and riposted by Marcus' blades. When the Daedric Prince lunged in low for a bite that would have taken Marcus' legs off, he leaped on top of the spirit wolf's back, the way he sometimes did when fighting dragons, and sliced downwards repeatedly with the Akaviri blade.

Farkas, his left hand bloodied and mangled from a bite by the Prince, roared out his approval and swung out from the right side with his great sword using only his remaining good hand. Vilkas worried the aspect repeatedly from behind while Hakon battered his left. Ice spikes and ebony arrows peppered the ghost-form and Alesan kept up a steady bashing on his snout.

" _No!"_ Hircine cried. _"You are weak, pitiful fools! I am the Lord of the Hunt!"_

"The Hunter is now the Hunted, Hircine!" Marcus growled. "You are defeated, and there will be no reprisals against Aela for her part in this, understood?"

" _I cannot be defeated,"_ Hircine gasped as Marcus leaped down from his back.

"Alduin thought the same thing," the Dragonborn said grimly. "I'll have your solemn vow, Hircine. Aela is not to be punished for this. It was all part of the Hunt. You said as much yourself when I decided to save Sinding instead of killing him."

Gasping, the aspect of Hircine looked around at the others, all facing him with grim determination in their eyes. They were fully prepared to continue if they must.

" _I…promise, Dragonborn,"_ Hircine gasped. _"She is blameless. You have won. I will not punish her."_

"Good," Marcus growled. "Now go. Get out of here. Go back to the Hunting Grounds and leave us in peace."

" _It would have been a marvelous Hunt, Dragonborn,"_ Hircine said almost wistfully. In the manner of beasts, the aggression against an adversary was quickly forgotten once the battle was over. He now spoke almost congenially. _"You would have been a worthy addition to my Wild Hunters. And you have defeated me. That is not an easy thing for a mortal to do. Had you not had the help of these mighty hunters, though, perhaps the tale would have a different ending. For now, savor your victory. This will not be your last dealings with the Daedra."_

"If I ever encounter another Daedric Prince, it will be too soon," Marcus growled. "Go."

The wolf spirit, the aspect of Hircine, gave him another long appraising look before it vanished. Everyone let out a collective sigh of relief. It was finally over.

"Dad?" Alesan asked. "Can we go home now?"

Marcus chuckled tiredly. "Sure, son. Let's help the others heal up, first, though. Grab that backpack your mother gave you. It's the medicine bag."

Of all of them, Serana was the only one uninjured. Sinding had a few scrapes and bruises from being tossed aside early on in the fighting, and Vilkas was limping and bleeding profusely from one leg. Marcus himself was all over cuts, bites and gashes. He felt stiff and sore and almightily tired.

" _Another tale worth repeating in Sovngarde,"_ Hakon crowed. _"My thanks for the summons, Dragonborn."_

"It's I who should be thanking _you,_ Hakon," Marcus smiled. "I'm glad you could come to help."

" _I will always be a Shout away when you need me,"_ the ancient Hero waved, just before he vanished.

"Was that _really_ Hakon One-Eye?" Vilkas queried in wonder. "One of the ancient First Tongues of legend?"

Marcus wasn't really surprised Vilkas knew of Hakon. He was a devout bookworm, after all.

"That was really him," he confirmed. "Or at least, his spirit. The Shout to summon him, Felldir or Gormlaith was a gift from Akatosh."

And speaking of Akatosh, he wondered to himself. He stepped aside from the others to ask his quiet question. _Are you there?_

There was silence for a long moment, to the point where Marcus was afraid it had all been for nothing, and he had lost contact with his patron forever.

 _I see you've been busy in my absence,_ came the familiar voice, and Marcus could have wept with relief.

 _Yeah, things got crazy for a bit,_ he admitted. _Sorry about that. I'm sorry about a lot of things, actually, but first and foremost, I'm sorry I didn't trust you, or my own abilities to get me through this. I kind of made a mess of things, didn't I?_

Akatosh chuckled. _But you managed to get yourself out of it. That's the important thing. Well, that, and what you've learned from this._

Marcus' brow furrowed. _What_ have _I learned from this?_

 _You tell me,_ the Dragon God of Time countered, and Marcus felt a bit like Dorothy at the end of _The Wizard of Oz,_ telling Glinda what she had learned during her journey.

 _I guess…no, I_ know _now that I'm stronger than I believed myself to be. I also learned not to take things at face value, to trust my gut, and to stand up for what's right, even if I have to face down extra-planar beings to do it._

Akatosh made a sound like someone clearing their throat. _Yes, well, you_ did _rather stir things up with the Ideal Masters. Not that they didn't deserve it, but it wasn't exactly diplomatic, either._

 _I was kind of out on my own, winging it,_ Marcus protested.

 _I wasn't criticizing,_ Akatosh soothed. _Not really. I merely said it wasn't diplomatic. I also said they rather deserved it. You'll be pleased to hear, however, that Arkay is delighted that the souls of the dead – the 'good' souls, as you called them – are coming to Aetherius where they belong. He'll be busy for the next several decades, I'm sure, sorting them all out._

Marcus actually _was_ pleased to hear this. It meant the Ideal Masters had taken his threat seriously enough not to risk his making a return trip for 'gem-cutting', as he called it.

 _Someone else who is rather pleased is Julianos,_ Akatosh reported with a smile in his voice. _He's telling anyone who will listen that he's going to be a Grandfather soon. I've told him not to interfere, but he never listens to me, so you'd best prepare yourself soon for a visit from your father-in-law._

This was actually more intimidating for Marcus than meeting the god in Sovngarde. There, he had been the Hero who had defeated the World-Eater. Here, he was the man who had married the god's daughter.

 _Thanks for the heads-up,_ he said sincerely. _Anything else I should be aware of?_

 _Nothing you need to know right now,_ his patron said indulgently. _Go on and live your life, Dragonborn. You've earned a rest._

Marcus was no fool. He knew Akatosh well enough by now. _Which simply means I'm not done yet, am I?_

There was another warm chuckle from the Chief of the Nine. _Oh, Marcus,_ he said. _You still have many more adventures to write upon the pages of Time._

With that, the Presence faded and Marcus knew he was alone once more. But it was a different kind of solitude than before, when he couldn't sense his patron at all. His sense of purpose had returned, and he knew whatever challenges the future brought, he was more than ready to face them.

* * *

 _[Author's Note: There will be one more chapter after this; an epilogue, if you will. Just a short foray into tying up some loose ends. Thank you for staying with me.]_


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

"So where are they?" Marcus demanded of Enthir, who was holding on to him for dear life. Ring of Flying notwithstanding, he was not prepared for flight via dragonback.

They had been flying for hours, now, on Durnehviir, through the choking ash still spewing forth from the Red Mountain. Both men had their faces covered with cloths to help facilitate breathing, but it really wasn't much help. Durnehviir suffered the worst of it, since there was little they could do to prevent him from breathing in the toxic fumes and particulate matter floating in the air. Rest stops were frequent for both man and dragon – though technically, Enthir was a mer, not a man.

"I don't know, Marcus," Enthir replied, his voice muffled from the cloth around his face and from the winds which swept his words away. "The information I took off that dead Thalmor said the fleet would be crossing the neck of land near Necrom and then they'd regroup and sail the inner sea to Blacklight."

"Given the amount of time it's taken for you to get back, and for both of us to come out here, we should have come upon them by now," the Dragonborn frowned. "How are you doing, Durnehviir?"

"I had not thought the skies of Keizaal would be so poisonous to breathe," wheezed the great gray-green dragon. "Had I known, I would have refused to bring you here."

"I'm sorry," Marcus apologized. "We aren't going to stick around much longer. We'll head home soon."

They had set out immediately from Winterhold as soon as Marcus had returned from Ysgramor's Tomb. He'd sent Alesan home under the protection of the Companions. He knew his son would be safe with them.

Though the boy was still young, he had handled himself so well, and with such courage, that after a brief consultation with the rest of the Circle, Marcus agreed to allow his younger son to accompany other veteran Companions when they went out on jobs.

"At least until you turn sixteen," Marcus qualified. "By then, I'm assuming you'll be able to handle yourself well enough to go out by yourself."

"And can I be a full-fledged member?" Alesan asked.

"We'll have to wait and see how you handle yourself on your Trial," Vilkas intoned before Marcus could reply. "For now, you're still a whelp to us." He ruffled the boy's hair to take the sting out of his words. "You're just a very talented whelp."

Marcus had parted from them at the edge of town and immediately returned to the College, where he waited for Enthir to pack the few belongings every mage seemed to need to bring with them. The wily Bosmer then led him to the top of the Hall of Countenance where he had summoned Durnehviir. This surprised Enthir, who knew the Dragonborn usually called for Odahviing, a fiery red dragon.

"If we find what we think we'll find," Marcus told him, "I don't want there to be any connection to me. Let the Dominion think this was just a random attack by a dragon with an agenda of his own. Have you got any invisibility potions?"

"A few," Enthir admitted.

"Good," Marcus replied, satisfied. "We'll save them for when we see them. If they don't see a rider on Durnehviir's back, it will only reinforce the notion that this was a random attack on their fleet."

"You intend to attack?" the wood elf gaped, surprised.

"I do," the Dragonborn said grimly. "We can't let them succeed in this. Too much is at stake here. One dragon can wreak havoc from the air, especially on ships made of materials that love to burn."

"Argonians can breathe underwater," Enthir reminded him. "It won't stop their numbers. They'll just dive overboard."

Marcus gave a feral smile. "Yeah, but most of their siege engines, their armory and their supplies will be on the ship. They won't have time to unload them. It might put them off the invasion entirely. One rogue dragon would be like a winter storm at sea."

"And you're certain that will be enough to stop the Argonians?" Enthir asked doubtfully.

Marcus shrugged. "It worked against the Spanish Armada."

Having no idea what his companion was talking about, Enthir had remained silent and went along with Marcus' plan. And it would have been a good plan, if all had gone according to plan; except that it hadn't. They had spent the better part of an entire day flying from Winterhold, down to Windhelm and across to Blacklight. From there they had followed the Inner Sea, tracing the coastline until they had reached the point closest to Necrom on the eastern coast, where they flew over dusty grey hills. They saw nothing. No ships, no Argonians, no invading army. Marcus even pushed Durnehviir to fly further down the eastern coast of Morrowind as far as Ghorne. Still, there was nothing. The only ships they saw were fishing boats and merchant vessels.

"I don't understand it!" the Bosmer scholar exclaimed now. "I had solid information, liberated from the body of a dead Thalmor. What could have happened?"

"The Dominion must have scrapped its plans when their agent turned up missing," Marcus frowned. "Either that, or you were given a red herring."

"How is that possible?" Enthir scowled, grasping the meaning of the unfamiliar metaphor immediately. He was quick like that; Marcus had to give him credit. "They didn't know I was trailing their man. They couldn't have known his orders would fall into my hands."

"Are you sure?" Marcus demanded.

"Reasonably sure," Enthir muttered, doubt beginning to creep into his mind.

"'Reasonably'?" Marcus said, more sharply than he had intended. "We came all this way on a wild goose chase because you were 'reasonably sure' _you_ hadn't been tailed?"

"I took all the precautions I could, Marcus!" the wood elf mage spluttered. "That's the problem when you're dealing with the Dominion. With every plan you prepare for, they've got three or four more waiting as back-up."

Blowing out a breath of frustration, Marcus shook his head. "Well, there's nothing more we can do here. Take us home, Durnehviir," he called.

"As my Thuri commands," the gray-green dragon coughed. He dipped one wing to turn and wheeled back the way they'd come.

The two men spoke little on the return trip, but Marcus' mind was in turmoil. A fleet as large as the one suggested in the orders Enthir had stolen from the Thalmor Justiciar would have been plainly visible from the air. Since they had seen no signs of Argonian ships, it only stood to reason that the whole plan had been a ruse. He said as much to his companion.

Enthir's voice behind him was troubled. "So it was all a feint, then, to draw us off?" he asked.

"Maybe," Marcus hedged. "I'm not relaxing my guard yet. Perhaps the Thalmor caught wind of you snooping around, and perhaps they just changed their plans when their agent turned up missing, but let's keep one eye on Morrowind, if we can."

"I may know somebody over here who might help us," Enthir mused. "An old friend of mine named Azura." At Marcus' startled reaction he smiled. "Yes, I know, she shares the name with a Daedric Prince, but trust me, she's a sweet girl. Bosmer, like me. Very talented and…very pretty."

"You think she'll help us?"

"If it doesn't interfere too much with her studies, she should," Enthir grinned. "I took a fancy to her some time back, but she'd never give me the time of day. Her nose was always buried in a book. She moved out to Morrowind some decades ago, and I heard she apprenticed herself to a Telvanni wizard on Solstheim. We're not that far from the island, as the dragon flies. We could swing by, and I could have a word with her. At the very least, I could introduce the two of you, and you can make up your own mind about how much to confide in her. I know you're…particular…about who you let into your inner circle."

"You make it sound like I'm difficult to work with," Marcus grimaced.

"Not at all!" Enthir protested, a teasing tone in his voice. "I'm just glad I'm already on the inside!"

"Let's just say I like to know where you are," Marcus shot back, and the exasperated grumble that met his ear made him grin. He genuinely liked Enthir, but it was clear the Bosmer mage had had dealings with some rather shady people in the past, and Marcus liked to keep close tabs on anyone who was overly familiar with the seamier underside of Skyrim.

Enthir directed him to have Durnehviir deposit them outside the one major city, Raven Rock, on the island of Solstheim. A memory triggered, and Marcus remembered this was where the cultists had come from who had attacked him on a handful of occasions. While he would have loved to follow that up, he knew they were here for a different purpose today. It would have to wait.

The former resident dragon of the Soul Cairn landed just north of the city, between the outskirts and a large rock formation covered with scaffolding. The workers never looked up, or ran for cover at the dragon's presence, and Marcus felt this was rather odd. They were chanting something as they worked, and their voices continued unchecked.

"Here in his temple…here in his shrine…that we have forgotten…"

Others took up the mantra, and to Marcus the hesitation between the phrases almost seemed as if they were waiting for someone to feed the line to them.

"Our eyes were once blinded…but now through you do we see…Our hands were once idle…now through them do you speak…"

Enthir regarded the workers solemnly as he dismounted. "That's strange," he commented. "I don't remember the Earth Stone ever needing repairs."

"Earth Stone?" Marcus asked, curious.

"Yes," the wizard nodded. "It's one of four dedicated to the All-Maker, the chief deity of the Skaal. They're similar to the standing stones of Skyrim, and have similar powers, but these are unique to Solstheim, and sacred to the Skaal."

"The Skaal?" Marcus queried. "Who are they?"

"A group of Nords who broke away from Skyrim long ago to return to the ways of their ancestors," Enthir explained. "They live very simply, in the northern part of the island, and keep pretty much to themselves. They're fairly peaceful, but are ferocious fighters if you get on their bad side."

Marcus realized there was a lot more about Tamriel he didn't know, and resolved to fill in the gaps as soon as possible. For now, however, they needed to find a particular mage. They walked back to Raven Rock, leaving Durnehviir to return to the sky. The people working on the Earth Stone never even flinched as his great wings stirred up an ash cloud from the gray, barren landscape around them. They continued their duties, and never once stopped chanting. It was disturbing…and more than a little creepy.

"And when the world shall listen…and when the world shall see…and when the world remembers…that world will cease to be…"

Their words sent a chill of foreboding down Marcus' spine, and it was difficult for him to shake off the sense of dread that filled him.

Nearly all of the buildings in Raven Rock were constructed with the main living quarters below ground, where it was cooler. The exposed portions resembled segmented insects. Marcus felt they bore an uneasy resemblance to chaurus, but said nothing to his companion. The buildings along the docks and the waterfront were of standard construction, boxy-like shapes that must have been sweltering inside, unless they also had rooms beneath them. As close as they were to the water's edge, Marcus thought that unlikely.

Enthir led them to one of the armadillo buildings. It was an inn called the Retching Netch.

"What's a netch?" the Dragonborn asked, feeling foolish for asking so many questions.

"It looks like a floating brain with tentacles," Enthir grinned, pointing to one drifting lazily off shore. "Quite docile, really, unless you attack them. I'd advise against that. They have a shock attack that can lay you flat – especially the bulls. They're prized for their jelly, though, which makes some hunters go after them anyway. Which reminds me, I should probably lay my hands on a supply while we're here. I could fetch a decent price for it when we get back."

"Business first, Enthir," Marcus insisted, eyes still staring at the strange, levitating monstrosity. "Try to stay focused on our primary goal."

"I thought I _was_ talking about business," the Bosmer mage drawled. "I just want to see Milore Ienth before we leave, that's all."

He opened the door and ducked inside. Marcus followed.

His first impression was that he had walked into a Mos Eisley cantina. Several figures stood around the ground-floor level girded in armor made of a dun-colored chitin-like material. The helmets were closed, with glass lenses in the visors to protect the eyes from blowing ash and sand.

 _They look like Tusken raiders,_ Marcus thought with some amusement.

Muffled conversations went on around them as they descended the wide, shallow stairs to the basement level below. Here many of the patrons had removed their protective gear and were relaxing in the cooler temperatures which could only be found underground at this time of day.

The Dunmer behind the bar looked up as they approached. "Welcome to the Retching Netch Cornerclub, outlanders. I'm Geldis Sadri, proprietor. What can I get you two gentlemen? Matze? Shein? Sujamma? I make the finest sujamma ever to cross your lips. What's your pleasure?"

"Actually, I'm looking for an old friend of mine," Enthir replied. "A Bosmer, like me. She's a mage, also like me, and I heard she was apprenticed to a wizard named Neloth."

"Ugh, that one," Geldis said wrinkling his long, pointed nose. "Not your friend, of course," he added hurriedly. "I meant Neloth. He has a sort of…reputation…around here. She could have picked a better master to apprentice herself to."

"What do you mean?" Marcus asked, immediately on the alert.

"He's…eccentric," Geldis offered. "Oh, I'm sure nothing untoward goes on over there at Tel Mithryn, but that Telvanni wizard has a very…abrasive…personality. He always seems to get on the wrong side of people. If she truly is apprenticed to him, then she has my sympathies."

"Where is Tel Mithryn?" the Dragonborn inquired.

"It's on the other side of the island, towards the southern coast," the innkeeper informed them. "You can't miss the place. Looks like a forest of gigantic mushrooms. The Telvanni wizards were famous for growing their own towers from a special fungus. It doesn't grow here naturally, so he must have done some pretty powerful magic to get a 'shroom that big to flourish in this ash-covered wasteland. I'd watch myself if I were you."

They thanked him and returned to the blistering, soot-choked day outside. The eruption of Vvardenfell, the Red Mountain, had separated Solstheim from the mainland centuries ago, and the towering cone could still be seen from Raven Rock, spewing its poisonous cloud into the skies. The result of the continuous eruptions had covered the lower half of the island in a thick blanket of soot and ash, which had killed off nearly all the plant life. What had survived was anything that could adapt to such a harsh environment, and that usually meant the aloe-like scathecraw plants, or the tough, fibrous trama roots. The gardens of Raven Rock were limited to ash yams as a crop, because little else would grow where rainfall was scarce and the sun was filtered through a perpetual haze.

"You there!"

The two travelers from Skyrim turned to see a well-dressed Dunmer approach them.

"I don't recognize you, outlander," he said, addressing Marcus, "so I'll assume this is your first trip to Raven Rock." He turned to Enthir. "You, however, I recognize. State your business here, Master Enthir."

"A good day to you, too, Second Councilor Arano," Enthir replied, but there was no warmth in his smile. "It must be a slow day at Councilor Morvayne's to bring you out among the people of Raven Rock."

A strained look crossed the Second Councilor's face, and he looked as though it cost him great effort not to make some scathing comeback in the presence of a witness. "I serve the Councilor as I serve the people of Raven Rock," he replied shortly. "And if that means keeping undesirables out of our city, that is what I will do." There was no mistaking the meaning in his tone. He clearly saw Enthir as one of those 'undesirables', and was prepared to put him on the next ship home. From the look in his eyes, it seemed even the ship would be an excess luxury, and Councilor Arano would prefer to make Enthir swim back to Skyrim. It was time to step in and diffuse the situation.

"My name is Marcus of Whiterun," he introduced himself. "And we're only here to look up an old friend of Enthir's. We were told we might find her in Tel Mithryn." He threw all his charm and persuasion into his voice. 'The Voice of the Emperor' Faendal had called it when he first came to Skyrim, and he had used it to good effect since then.

"You'd best be on your way, then," Councilor Arana said, slightly mollified. "You'll find Tel Mithryn to the southeast, on the coast. I would advise you to be careful, however. The wastelands are filled with danger."

 _I don't intend to walk there,_ Marcus thought smugly. Thanking the Councilor, he led Enthir away, pausing only long enough for the wily Bosmer to haggle with Milore, the alchemist, over the potion ingredients that were not readily available in Skyrim.

In a short time they were once more flying over the wasteland that was the southern portion of Solstheim. From this vantage point, the Red Mountain loomed even closer than it had on their way down to Ghorne. Below them, the ash-choked land appeared as some sort of apocalyptic landscape, like the aftermath of a nuclear explosion. In a little less than an hour, however, Marcus could see odd shapes rising in the distance.

"Tel Mithryn," Enthir yelled above the wind, pointed. "Geldis was right about the mushrooms, anyway."

Indeed, as they drew closer, it soon became apparent that gigantic mushrooms were clustered near the shore. As they circled for Durnehviir to find a place to land, they saw a Dunmer mage outside, practicing his spell-casting.

"Is that Neloth?" Marcus called out.

"Not likely," Enthir replied scathingly. "Not when he's wearing apprentice robes."

"Oh." Marcus had forgotten about that. Mages took their advancement very seriously, and there was some unspoken code of honor that one did not wear robes above his or her station.

"You have to earn the right," Tamsyn told him once. "If I saw a mage wearing Expert level who couldn't cast Paralyze, or conjure a Dremora Lord, I would question her other abilities, and wonder what else she lied about."

He supposed that made sense in a way. He hadn't paid much attention at the time when Tamsyn was going through the ranks. He'd just assumed that the different robes were like putting on a different outfit every day. Clearly, this was not the case.

Durnehviir set them down, but waited for them, rather than flying off. "The air in this land is _bein…_ foul, _Dovahkiin,"_ he wheezed. "I have been in many undesirable places before, but never where it became an effort to breathe."

"I'm sorry, Durnehviir," Marcus said sincerely, patting the gray-green dragon's neck. "As soon as we're done here we'll head home, I promise."

Privately, he wondered how much pyroclastic flow was settling into his own lungs, and resolved to have Tamsyn give all three of them a checkup once they got back.

"Excuse me," Enthir said to the Dunmer mage as they approached. "Where would I find Azura Frostfeather?"

The effect on the young man was immediate. He scowled. "In Oblivion, I wish!" he spat. "Is she a friend of yours? Oh, but of course she must be. Azura makes friends with _everyone!"_

"I'm sensing a bit of resentment here," Marcus muttered for Enthir's ears only.

"That or jealousy," Enthir agreed, under his breath. "Is she inside?" he said now, nodding to the largest mushroom building.

"Where else would she be?" the young mage shot back, bitterness edging his voice. "She dances attendance on Master Neloth like some simpering courtier from Vivec. He's already taught her spells he hasn't even taught _me_ yet!"

Enthir threw Marcus a look that said, _I was right. It was jealousy._

"He praises her all the time, too!" the Dunmer went on. "It's all 'Azura did this for me,' and 'Azura mastered that spell.' Not one kind word for Talvas, for as long as I've been here. Oh, no! That's just too much to hope for."

"We'll just show ourselves in, then," was all the Bosmer mage said as he motioned Marcus to follow him up the chute leading to the door that had grown out of the root naturally. They left Talvas still muttering to himself in the ashes.

Inside the enormous mushroom, Marcus found himself standing in a small, round room with no other doors. Enthir was nowhere to be seen.

"Enthir?" he called, concerned.

"Up here!" came the Bosmer's voice, and Marcus looked up. Enthir was peering over the edge of the top of the shaft.

"Ring of Flying?" he guessed sourly. "How's that supposed to get me up there?"

"I didn't use my Ring," Enthir soothed. "Just step into the middle of the room."

Shrugging, Marcus did so and immediately found himself being lifted into the air and gently deposited on a wooden deck built out at the edge of the hole.

"I suppose you have a good reason for invading my home and interrupting my studies," a man's voice drawled, and the two from Skyrim turned to face their host. Marcus realized at once this could be none other than Neloth himself, and studied the Dunmer mage before him.

Everything about the man said 'long.' Dressed in long flowing robes of red and orange, intricately embroidered with cryptic designs, the master of Tel Mithryn glowered at them under bushy eyebrows set in a long, narrow face accentuated by his equally long, pointed beard. By contrast, his head was shaved close. His hands were well-shaped and narrow, and currently held fire in one and frost in the other.

"You have exactly two seconds to tell me what you're doing here," the wizard warned, raising his hands.

"Master Neloth, please don't hurt them!" a woman's voice urged. "I recognize the Bosmer."

"He's a friend of yours, Azura?" Neloth inquired.

"I didn't say that," Azura countered, glaring at Enthir. "I said I recognized him. Please don't shoot them," she said again. "It took me days to clean up the last mess!"

Neloth grumbled something under his breath that Marcus didn't quite catch. "Fine," he snapped. "But find out what they want quickly and then get them out of here. We have work to do."

"Yes, Master Neloth," Azura replied in a long-suffering tone. A look of despair crossed her face as he turned away, before it resumed the glare with which she favored Enthir. "What are _you_ doing here, Enthir?" she said in a reproving tone. "I thought I made it clear last time we spoke that—"

"Er-r-r…this is Marcus…of Whiterun," Enthir said quickly, cutting off whatever the Bosmer girl had been about to say. "Marcus this is my friend, Azura."

"Friend?" Azura gasped, eyes flashing dangerously. "I think that's too strong a word, Enthir!" she continued severely. She turned to Marcus and greeted him with a warm smile. "Hello, Marcus. It's very nice to meet you." Looking back to Enthir, the coldness returned to her voice. "You almost got me expelled from the College—"

"I smoothed things over with Arch-Mage Sedoth," Enthir pleaded, making hushing gestures with his hands. "He knew you weren't to blame."

"But the stain of scandal will follow me as long as they remember—"

"There's hardly anyone there now that was there, then," the wily Bosmer cajoled.

"No, especially Pithi and Treoy and Balwen and Katarina," Azura scowled, a bleak look in her eyes. "They aren't there anymore, either. You and Savos and I were the only ones—"

"I'm sure you must have heard about Savos by now," Enthir cut in.

Marcus couldn't help but notice that Enthir was making valiant efforts to keep whatever had passed between the two secret. He also took note of the fact that Azura clearly didn't lump him into the same category as the disfavored Bosmer.

Azura calmed down. "Yes," she replied. "I did hear about that, and about your new Arch-Mage. But that doesn't explain why you're here now, Enthir. And you'd better explain quickly, and then leave. Master Neloth does not have an unlimited wellspring of patience."

It was time to step in again, Marcus thought. "We were wondering if we could ask a favor of you," he said, bringing all his charm into his voice.

"A favor?" Azura mused. "Well, I suppose it would be alright, if it's something I can do, that is. But I make no promises." Once again, her tone and manner in dealing with Marcus was all warmth and friendliness. It was clearly Enthir with whom she held a grudge.

"I have a suspicion that the Aldmeri Dominion may be trying to shuttle Argonian troops through Morrowind on their way to Skyrim," Marcus stated. "I was wondering if you'd be able to keep your eyes and ears open for anything going on over there on the mainland?"

"What in my namesake's name would make you think that?" the Bosmer girl blinked.

"We…intercepted some intelligence recently—" Enthir began, but Azura merely snorted.

"It can't be _that_ intelligent," she replied disparagingly. "Everyone in Morrowind – _and_ Solstheim – knows the Dunmer and the Argonians _hate_ each other. It's an old grievance. Suffice to say, any Argonian troops that tried to cross Morrowind would be cut down on sight."

Marcus and Enthir looked at each other. The Dragonborn scowled and the Bosmer mage shrugged helplessly.

"You're sure about this?" Marcus asked, keeping a firm grip on his temper. Now was not the time to get upset, and Azura had certainly done nothing to deserve it.

"I'm positive, Marcus," she assured him. "You didn't say how the Dominion intended to get the troops through, but it doesn't matter. If they go by land, they'll be cut down by any or all of the Houses across Morrowind. If they go by sea, the Redoran navy will sink every ship. They wouldn't let a single one get through their sovereign waters."

"Then we've been had," Enthir moaned.

" _You've_ been had," Marcus rumbled. "And me along with you. The Dominion probably planned it this way all along."

"Forgive me, Marcus," Azura interrupted. "But now that you've had your answer, I think the two of you should leave. Master Neloth is looking this way repeatedly, and he's becoming more and more irritated with each glance. I'll come down to see you off."

True to her word, the Bosmer girl followed them down the shaft and out into the ash lands beyond. Talvas looked up as they emerged from the gigantic mushroom and his eyes lit up upon seeing Azura, then darkened and brooded again seeing the two men with her. He said nothing to any of them.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help, Marcus," Azura sighed. "If you still want me to watch Morrowind for you, I'll try to do my best, but I doubt the Dominion will attempt to reach out this far. The Dunmer don't trust the Altmer or the Dominion, so I think any Thalmor activity there is highly unlikely."

"Thank you, Azura," Marcus said sincerely, bowing respectfully. "Whether you know it or not, you've been very helpful."

"You're quite welcome, Marcus," the Bosmer girl beamed. "Look me up the next time you come to Solstheim. I can show you around Raven Rock and the Skaal Village."

She turned to Enthir and though her voice was pleasant enough, her eyes were hard. "Enthir," she said flatly, "I hope it's at least as long as it was before I see you again." She turned and disappeared back into Tel Mithryn.

"Ouch," Marcus couldn't help grinning. "What did you do to piss her off?"

"I'd rather not go into it," Enthir grumbled. "It was a long time ago."

"Not long enough, apparently," the Dragonborn chortled.

"The woman has an unfairly long memory!"

Marcus was still amused as he led the way back to Durnehviir, but thinking about the wasted trip out here soon chased the smile from his lips. The Dominion was up to something, that much was clear, and that something was big enough to warrant getting either the Arch-Mage – whom Marcus was certain had been the intended recipient of the misinformation – or by extension, her husband the Dragonborn to chase after shadows in Morrowind. A sense of dread urgency filled him and he ordered Durnehviir to return to Whiterun as quickly as possible.

"I should get back to Winterhold, not Whiterun!" Enthir protested.

"Jump off and fly back when we reach Windhelm, then," Marcus suggested. "Or wait til we land in Whiterun and take the carriage. I need to find out what's been going on since we've been gone. Tamsyn will know, and she's at home with the children."

Enthir grumbled, but subsided. He did indeed 'jump off and fly back' as they passed over Windhelm, making sure to drink an invisibility potion first. "Can't be too careful," he said before he leaped. Marcus sincerely hoped his Ring was working properly.

Durnehviir set him down outside Whiterun as the sun was setting and he used his Whirlwind Sprint to reach the gates faster. Once inside he raced for the front door and threw it open. Tamsyn, Serana and Lydia were huddled by the fireplace. Lucia, Sofie and Alesan were already in bed.

"Marcus!" Tamsyn gasped, rising quickly and running over to him. "Thank the gods you're back! I had no idea when you'd return, and no way to contact you."

"Tell me what's happened," he said shortly. "Enthir's information was wrong. There was no fleet."

"Jarl Nepos has been assassinated," Tamsyn said, worry in her tone. "It happened last night, as we understand it."

" _NEPOS?"_ Marcus echoed, sinking into a nearby chair. Lydia retreated briefly to the kitchen area and returned with a blue bottle, pouring out a stiff shot for Marcus. He knocked it back and cleared his throat, gasping at the first rush of the Colovian Brandy. "Thanks, Lydia," he wheezed. "I needed that."

"Thought you might," she murmured. She poured him a second drink, but he lingered over this one, his mind racing.

"This is bad," Marcus frowned. "We needed him on the throne in the Reach."

"It's worse than you think, my love," Tamsyn said unhappily. "The reports are that it was done by Stormcloaks. Madanach is furious."

"Holy shit," Marcus muttered. "Er…sorry, ladies. Did they capture the assassins?"

"According to what we've heard," Serana answered, "one died trying to escape. The other managed to kill himself before he could be questioned by authorities."

"So two got in, killed Nepos and died escaping," Marcus frowned. "Sounds like it was a planned suicide mission from the start. How did they know they were Stormcloaks?"

Tamsyn shrugged. "They were Nords, dressed in Stormcloak armor. We haven't been able to learn yet if they were dissidents acting on their own—"

"Or if this was what the Dominion planned all along," Marcus finished grimly. "Tamsyn, my love, I think we need to get to Markarth as soon as possible."

"I'll take care of things here, Thane, don't worry," Lydia promised, retrieving the glass and bottle and retreating to the kitchen with them. Serana informed them she would gather her pack from her room downstairs and left the Dragonborn alone with his wife.

"I've already packed our bags," Tamsyn said, putting her arms around him, and leaning her head on his chest. "I'm glad you're back now, but it was horrible just having to wait for you. I think we really need to focus on some form of magical mass communication in the near future."

"Think you can invent cell phones in the next few weeks?" Marcus asked, trying to smile.

"I make no promises," his wife said tiredly. "But I have an idea that might work. I'll need time to research it."

"See if you can't get your scholars to work on that," he suggested.

"I would, but they're all tied up working on the portals," Tamsyn replied. "They've figured out how they work, and now we're working on putting two of them into operation; one at the College and one in Blackreach. It should be up and running in a few days, but that won't help us get to the Reach any faster than Odahviing could carry us."

"It won't be soon enough to forestall a potential breakdown of our alliance," Marcus worried. "That's why I think we should leave for Markarth right away. You said you packed?"

Tamsyn nodded. "Everything's ready. Lydia will be here and explain to the children in the morning where we've gone."

Marcus blew out a sigh. "Let's go, then. The sooner we get there, the better."

* * *

Odahviing dropped them off just outside Markarth two hours later. The town was still buzzing with activity, even though it was the middle of the night. The Silver-Blood Inn – which had been renamed 'Reachman's Rest' – was so packed with patrons all gossiping about the murder of their Jarl, and wondering what would happen to the Reach now, that some had spilled out into the streets to discuss the future of their city and their Hold. Marcus and Tamsyn didn't stay long, but headed directly to Vlindrel Hall. Argis met them in the great room, trousers pulled on hastily, hair tousled from sleep. He was shirtless, and Marcus heard Tamsyn make an appreciative noise behind him. A flash of annoyance went through him which he quickly stifled. He knew Argis wasn't interested in Tamsyn 'that way.'

"Thane Marcus!" Argis blinked. "I guess you're here because you heard what happened."

"Tell me what you know, Argis," Marcus ordered.

The tall, burly Nord ran a hand through his sandy, flame-kissed hair. "Not much I can add to what's already going around, Thane," he replied. "Two guys dressed in Stormcloak armor somehow made their way into Understone Keep and up to the Mournful Throne and shouted 'Skyrim belongs to the Nords,' just before they stabbed Jarl Nepos to death. Esmerelda, his court mage, was there, and shot one down before he reached the bottom of the stairs. The other put a ward around himself and made a break for the museum."

"The museum?" Marcus echoed, perplexed.

"Yeah, we think that's how they got in," Argis answered. "There's a winding, twisting way old Calcelmo used to take to get to his private quarters that led through the museum. Esmerelda doesn't use those chambers, preferring to stay closer to Nepos. "

Serana was frowning. "You said one of them put up a ward?" she clarified.

"Yeah," Argis nodded. "Surprised us all. We Nords don't go in much for magic, but I guess some do."

"There are a few at the College," Tamsyn admitted, "but they're rare."

"So where are the bodies now?" Marcus asked. "The Hall of the Dead?"

Argis nodded again. "Yeah. Esmerelda said she was gonna do an examination on them." The big Nord shuddered. "I wouldn't wanna be there when she does it."

"Squeamish, Argis?" Tamsyn teased. "You?"

"Not about blood and guts," he said, waving his hands dismissively. "She intends to _question_ them." He emphasized significantly, shuddering again. "That just ain't right!"

Tamsyn's smile evaporated. "That's necromancy," she brooded. "I'm not comfortable with that, but since we aren't at Winterhold, and I'm not in charge here, I guess I can't say much."

"Necromancy's not as bad as you think it is," Serana said defensively. "It's certainly helped your husband and I out on several occasions."

"She has a point," Marcus agreed. "And as much as I don't like it, it may help us find out who those men were working for. I don't know if the information would be admissible in a court of law, but we'll have to leave that to the new Jarl, whoever that may be."

"I'd like to talk to Esmerelda," Tamsyn said. "Do you think she'd still be up at this hour?"

"It can wait until morning, dear," Marcus insisted. "We've both had a long day. Let's send word up to the Keep that we're in town and we'd like an audience with the court mage in the morning. Then let's get some sleep."

Reluctantly, Tamsyn agreed, and a note was sent by courier, before they all settled down for what remained of the night. In the morning, Marcus led Tamsyn down under Vlindrel Hall to the hot springs shared by the four houses in this part of the city. They had the place to themselves as they soaked away the grime and aches of the last few days. Serana had embarrassedly declined to accompany them.

"I could get _very_ used to this," Tamsyn moaned in pleasure. "This was _never_ in the game."

Marcus grinned, floating next to her. "Argis showed me this the first night I stayed here. It quickly became my favorite part of the house."

The bathhouse had been carefully stocked by each owner's Housecarl with towels, soaps and the like, and Tamsyn luxuriated in the water until Marcus reminded her they had a meeting to go to. When they were presentable again, they collected Serana and made their way up the canyon to Understone Keep. They found Esmerelda seated on the Mournful Throne, easily handling the questions the citizens were demanding of her.

"How are we going to be safe in our own homes if the Stormcloaks attack again?" one demanded.

"I sincerely doubt the Stormcloaks actually had anything to do with the attack," Esmerelda replied, and Marcus breathed a huge sigh of relief. Finally, a voice of reason!

"How can you be so sure?" Lizbet, from the general goods store inquired. She saw Marcus approach and blanched, sidling out of his way to let him through.

"I'm going to find out for certain later today," Esmerelda said. "Jarl Nepos was well-loved here in Markarth, by Imperials and Stormcloaks alike. He was fair-minded and diplomatic with everyone, and he will be sorely missed. But as well as being his court mage, you all know that he appointed me to be his Steward. I know of the plans he had begun to set in motion for the benefit of our city and our Hold. Please rest assured I will do everything in my power to hold to his wishes."

"Just how do you intend to find out the truth?" a cultured, snobbish voice demanded, and Marcus turned to see a Thalmor Justiciar among the throng gathered there. Citizens around the mer gave him a wide berth, and his guards hovered intimidatingly close, ensuring the Altmer's safety.

"I will ask them," Esmerelda dead-panned, and Marcus covered his mouth to keep from bursting out laughing. The look on the Thalmor's face was priceless.

"That's Ondolemar," Tamsyn whispered to Serana and Marcus. "Under Jarl Igmund, he had unlimited access to anyone and everyone he suspected of being a Talos-worshipper. I'm not sure what his status is now, but he clearly hasn't been recalled yet."

"Do you think he had anything to do with it?" Marcus murmured for her ears only.

"I'm not sure," Tamsyn said. "If he didn't, the Dominion's throwing him under the bus if we find out they're behind it."

"He can't be too happy about that," Marcus nodded. "He looks like a desperate man."

"If he's smart," Serana said wryly, "he'll start running now, _before_ the Steward does her investigation."

"You're not suggesting you'd use…necromancy…to get answers?" Ondolemar asked incredulously. "Information obtained in that manner is rarely reliable. And I believe necromancy is outlawed in the Empire."

"In point of fact," Tamsyn spoke up, stepping forward, "it's only abolished by the Mages Guild of the Imperial City, and by the College of Winterhold." The crowd turned to look at her and parted to let her and her companions come forward. Ondolemar glared at her, but she continued speaking, oblivious to his ire. "Since we are in neither place, and since Master Esmerelda clearly does not belong to either faction, she is not, in fact, doing anything wrong by performing necromancy, as distasteful as it may be for some."

"You would be the Arch-Mage of Winterhold, then?" Ondolemar sniffed. "I've heard of you. I'm surprised you aren't on my side about this. The performance of necromantic spells on the dead is highly disturbing to all concerned. The dead should be allowed to rest in peace."

 _Especially if they know something that some would prefer to keep secret, is that it?_ Tamsyn thought privately. Aloud she merely smiled. "I'm sure you are as eager as I am to get to the truth of this matter, Emissary Ondolemar. My husband and I have been working tirelessly to try and bring about a truce between Imperials and Stormcloaks. Too many people have died already."

The heads of those in the crowd around them nodded in agreement.

Ondolemar made an irritated noise. "The truce was meant to last only long enough for your husband, the Dragonborn," here he nodded briefly to Marcus, "to defeat the dragon known as Alduin. That has been accomplished."

"So you think we ought to go back to hating and fighting again, just because one crisis has been averted?" Marcus snorted. "That's a very narrow-minded viewpoint. If we can all work together and get along, no one needs to fight or die for any cause. We can have peace."

More murmurs of approval came from the crowd, and Ondolemar knew he was not going to win this one.

"If someone was only _pretending_ to be a Stormcloak in order to stir up trouble," Marcus continued conversationally, "I would think we would all want to know that. And I would think we would all want to know who would benefit from seeing Skyrim and the Empire constantly at war with each other."

The calls from the crowd were growing louder now, and Ondolemar seemed to feel that it was time to take the better part of valor.

"Of course you are correct, Dragonborn," he replied, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I only wanted to be certain that every consideration for the dead had been taken. Necromancy very often leads to…desecration of the bodies. We would not wish to offend or bring distress to the families of the assailants."

"They murdered Jarl Nepos," Marcus said flatly. "I think they've given up any post-mortem rights they might have had." He smiled to take the sting out of his words. "But my wife and I are here, and we will make certain the bodies are treated with the respect with which they are due."

"Please, everyone," Esmerelda said now, "return to your homes and your lives. We will find out the truth of the matter and make our decisions accordingly. Rest assured you are all still very safe here in Markarth."

With that, having nothing else to keep them there, the crowd dispersed. Ondolemar was first to leave, his golden-clad lackeys trailing after him.

"Ten septims says he starts packing right away," a voice murmured next to Marcus' ear – a voice he knew all too well.

"Madanach," he hissed at the rag-covered beggar hunched next to him. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in Bthardamz?"

"My best friend in the entire world gets murdered, and you think I _wouldn't_ show up?" Madanach growled dangerously.

Marcus was abashed. "I'm sorry, Madanach…I didn't know you two were close."

"Like brothers," Madanach said shortly. "Best damned nightblade I ever knew. Come on. I'm headed up to speak with Esmerelda. I want to find out who paid those bastards to kill my friend."

Mutely, Tamsyn and Marcus followed Madanach up the steps to approach Markarth's Steward-Mage, with Serana trailing behind. Several of the Reachguard started at her glowing eyes and gave her a wide berth, but did not initiate an immediate attack. She had come in with the Dragonborn, after all, and they assumed she was under his protection, and that he knew what he was doing.

The Reach Guards in front of the Steward-Mage crossed their spears, prohibiting them from getting too close.

"What the fuck is this?" Madanach groused. "Can't a King speak to a mage?"

"It's alright," Esmerelda said to her guards. "You may let them pass." The guards returned to attention and withdrew the spears.

"Laying it on a bit thick, aren't ya, Essie?" the Reach-King drawled laconically, giving her illusion an appreciative once-over with his eyes.

"Must keep up appearances, my liege," the mage murmured, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Just as you are. But we can't speak too openly here. Let's retire to my quarters. We can talk there."

She led them down the stairs and turned left, heading for the room that Tamsyn remembered as the quarters of Steward Raerek, under Jarl Igmund. Once the door was closed she let her Illusion spell drop, and stood before them as the Matriarch she truly was.

"Madanach, what are you doing here?" she demanded. "It's too dangerous! We don't know yet if those men were working alone, or if there are still other conspirators out there waiting for a chance to cause more chaos here."

"Essie," the Reach-King said bleakly. "I had to come. You know I did. Tell me exactly what happened."

There wasn't much more the Steward-Mage Matriarch could tell them that Marcus, Tamsyn and Serana hadn't already heard from Argis.

"We sent a troop of Reachguard through the museum and Calcelmo's old quarters," she finished. "We found that it's possible to get onto his balcony by climbing up the cliff near the waterfall. It's not easy, but it can be done."

"So we know how they got in," Marcus mused, "but not where they came from."

"That's something I intend to remedy this afternoon," Esmerelda told them grimly. "And before we go further, Dragonborn, Arch-Mage," she continued, "I would like to thank you for personally having my back out there." She inclined her head gratefully.

"Why is Ondolemar still here?" Tamsyn asked. "I would have thought he would return to the Summerset Isles when Nepos took over as Jarl."

"Interim Jarl," Madanach reminded her dourly.

"Yes, Interim Jarl, Madanach, I'm sorry," the Breton girl apologized.

"I was just as surprised as you," Esmerelda admitted, "but apparently the Dominion felt it necessary for him to stay on here."

"He's going to find it very uncomfortable, very soon," Madanach rumbled. "My best friend is dead, and that gilded toady had something to do with it."

"We don't know that for a fact, Madanach," Marcus cautioned him. "Let's get the evidence we need first, before we start throwing accusations around."

"Oh, I won't be throwing _accusations…"_ the Reach-King promised with deadly calm. He flexed his fingers, and lightning began to crackle between them.

There was a sudden knock on the door, and everyone fell silent. Esmerelda put on her illusion of the middle-aged Reachwoman and crossed the room. "Who is it?" she called.

"It's Kaie," a woman's voice said faintly from the other side. Dwemer metal was very dense; soundproofing seemed almost built-in. "Is my Da in there?"

Esmerelda glanced at Madanach, who smiled grimly and nodded. The Steward-Mage opened the door and Kaie strode in with two Briarhearts and a third figure supported between them. Though beaten up and unconscious, the tell-tale black and gold robes gave no doubt as to his identity. It was Ondolemar.

"Good work, daughter!" Madanach rumbled, cracking his knuckles.

"What have you done?" Tamsyn gasped, coming over to check on the unconscious mer.

"He was resisting arrest," Kaie said blandly. "We caught him as he was leaving his room. He'd thrown a bunch of papers and things in here." She handed a backpack to her father, who passed it wordlessly over to Marcus before raising his hands once more, the lightning crackling louder and filling the room with the smell of ozone.

"Madanach," Esmerelda warned. "This is not the time or the place."

"The Void it isn't!" the older man growled. "This filthy daedra-spawn murdered Nepos!"

"In point of fact, _he_ didn't," Tamsyn said, stepping between Madanach and Ondolemar. Marcus wanted to yelp at her to get out of the way, but that calm presence in his mind told him to sit back and let things play out. "It was the other two men, dressed as Stormcloaks that actually did that."

"Out of my way, Arch-Mage," Madanach gritted. He didn't look as though he would hold back if she refused.

"No," Tamsyn said, her voice still quiet and soothing, but full of authority. "I know you're hurting, and I know you want justice, Madanach, but this isn't it."

"This is Reach justice!" the former King in Rags roared.

"Is it?" Tamsyn asked calmly. "Is this the kind of justice we can expect if we turn the Reach back over to you? An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth?"

"Works for me," Madanach rumbled.

"And what if Ondolemar is innocent?" Tamsyn asked. "What if he's being played by his own people? What if they set him up to take the fall? If you kill him, we will never know the truth."

"Essie will find it out," Madanach insisted, some of his anger abating.

"Not everyone in the Reach, in Skyrim, or the Empire, will accept a confession obtained through necromancy," Tamsyn reasoned. "You know this, Madanach." She smiled. "I want justice for Nepos, too. He was doing a fine job as interim Jarl, and if this hadn't happened, we could have been ready to turn the Reach over to you sooner. This has set us back a bit, but it's nothing we can't recover from. Let's find out what's in those papers Ondolemar was trying to leave with. Let's interrogate him and see what he has to say. I know a spell that will compel him to speak only the truth. Let's do this the right way, Madanach, please."

For a long moment, the older man seethed, and it looked as though he might refuse to back down. Finally, however, he seemed to get himself under control and he gave a short nod.

"We'll do it your way, for now, Arch-Mage," he muttered. "If I'm not satisfied, though, don't get in my way again." There was a warning there, a promise, that everyone in the room knew he would keep, and Marcus stiffened. He didn't want to kill Madanach; he was too important to keeping the Reachfolk on their side. But if he offered Tamsyn any harm there would be a reckoning.

Tamsyn seemed not to notice or care about any implied threat, however, as she turned and cast a healing spell on the Altmer still being supported by the two Briarhearts. They kept a firm grip on him as he regained consciousness, as Tamsyn cast another spell.

"I learned it from Wylandriah in Riften," she explained. "It has come in very handy in the past."

"What…what are you doing?" Ondolemar sputtered. "Unhand me at once!"

"Not quite yet, Ondolemar," Tamsyn replied mildly. "We have a few questions for you, and you're going to answer them."

At first it looked as though he might refuse. He wanted to, that much was clear, but a frustrated look crossed his face as he heard himself capitulating.

"Yes, I'll answer them," he replied, fear and shock coloring his tone. "What have you done to me?"

"Just a little truth spell," Tamsyn answered. "We don't have time for lies. Now, why were you running?"

Again, Ondolemar looked as though he wanted to seal his own lips, but they opened anyway and the truth came out.

"I knew I would be blamed for Nepos' death, even though I knew nothing about it," he said.

"Nothing at all?" Madanach demanded angrily. "I don't believe you!"

"I swear I had nothing to do with it," Ondolemar answered, beads of sweat breaking out on his brow. "The Dominion gave me orders to remain in Markarth when everyone else was recalled. The orders came from First Emissary Gwaiden himself. No explanation was given. I assumed new orders would follow, but they never came."

"So the Dominion threw you under the carriage," Marcus nodded. "What are in these papers?" He hefted the backpack.

Ondolemar's face twisted, as if in pain. "Sensitive information about the Second Great War," he answered reluctantly. "The Dominion is aware of your efforts to achieve peace across Skyrim, Dragonborn. We have lost many Justiciars and Emissaries in the Summerset Isles recently, and have traced the problem to an artifact you planted in the Embassy in Skyrim two years ago. While we have been unable to destroy the artifact, we nevertheless felt that we should step up our plans to neutralize your hope for an independent Reach. Assassinating Jarl Nepos was part of that plan, but I was not informed about _when_ it would take place. I had thought I would be recalled before that would happen."

"What else does the Dominion know of our plans?" Madanach growled.

"It's all in the papers," Ondolemar answered, hanging his head. "I have nothing to lose now by telling you. You'll kill me, and the Dominion will disavow any knowledge of my actions here. They will claim I was working alone, and that I hired the assassins. I did not."

"Who did?" Tamsyn asked. The Thalmor Justiciar shrugged.

"I don't know," he replied. "There was nothing in my communications concerning Nepos' assassination or the men hired to do the job."

"The Dominion didn't trust you," Serana observed. "They knew that if _you_ knew it would take place while you were still here, that you might run sooner. They _wanted_ you to be the scapegoat."

"I am a dead mer," Ondolemar nodded, hanging his head. "Even if you don't kill me, the Dominion will. I cannot go back to them, and if it becomes known that you pardoned and released me, they will send assassins after me. The arm of the Dominion is long. There is no place I can hide from them where they will not find me."

Tamsyn thought of Malborn, who had helped Marcus in the Thalmor Embassy in Solitude. He had also thought he could escape the Thalmor. He was wrong.

"I know a place where you might be able to hide," Tamsyn said now. "I can guarantee the Thalmor know nothing about it, and will never find you. But only if you promise to help us."

" _What?"_ Marcus and Madanach said simultaneously. Esmerelda remained silent, and Serana merely lifted an eyebrow.

"Tamsyn, what are you—" Marcus began.

"Dearest, trust me on this one, please?" she begged. "Ondolemar still has a lot of valuable information he could tell us that may not be in those papers. What do you say?" she continued, turned back to the Justiciar. "Will you help us?"

The Altmer gave her a long, steady look, before sighing and slumping between the two Briarhearts. "I have little choice," he said, defeated. "I will help you."

* * *

Three figures emerged from the Wayshrine of Radiance. Marcus and Tamsyn supported Ondolemar, who seemed to be suffering from a crisis of faith.

"Wrong…" he murmured, weeping. "I've been wrong…about everything…"

It had been an emotional trip through the Wayshrines for the Altmer. Initially Ondolemar had still been as arrogant as ever, with an over-inflated sense of self-entitlement however, he very soon progressed through a series of emotions, including shock, anger, denial, bargaining and finally, acceptance. In fact, all of the stages of grief, Marcus realized, when one has lost someone or something very important to them.

Ondolemar carried the ceremonial Ewer that Marcus had first carried through Darkfall Passage and Caverns, but on this trip they were not bothered by Falmer. It was something for which Marcus was profoundly grateful.

 _Your doing?_ he asked the Presence in his mind.

 _No,_ came the surprising answer. _Someone else is seeing to their rehabilitation. Just as you are seeing to Ondolemar's._

This appeared to be the case. As they made their way through the caverns and tunnels, and through the Vale and the Wayshrines beyond, Marcus could see the former Justiciar becoming quieter, more introspective, and almost – Marcus would say – humbler.

"This wasn't what Auri-El wanted," Ondolemar murmured at one point, after filling his Ewer for the third time. "We were so arrogant…"

 _It's a pity we can't herd all the Justiciars through here,_ the Dragonborn thought wryly.

It was a broken, subdued mer who hesitated to enter the Chantry itself as the sun set and the moons rose, stating that he did not deserve to pass through the hallowed doors. With encouragement from Tamsyn and Marcus, he swallowed hard, and was at last introduced to Knight-Paladin Gelebor, and Teacher Sylfaen, who was surrounded by a small crowd of Falmer; these last scurried off to a safe distance at the sight of them.

 _Wait…sight? They can see now?_

A deep chuckle resounded in his mind. _Yes, Dragonborn. The potion Tamsyn gave Sylfaen is already having an effect on them. They still are not able to withstand full sunlight, but give them time._

Gelebor and Sylfaen willingly accepted Ondolemar as a new resident and convert. Sylfaen remembered Ondolemar, but he didn't recognize her without her mask until she spoke.

The Dragonborn and his wife didn't stay long. They left the supplies they had brought and wished Ondolemar well, in spite of past differences. He promised to write down everything he could remember of Thalmor operations in Skyrim.

"I must warn you, however," he said, a look of peace on his careworn face, "that the Dominion will very soon adjust their plans to make up for the loss of my documents. The information you have will become obsolete very soon. Take advantage of them while you can."

Marcus and Tamsyn thanked him again and returned to the top of the Chantry to call Odahviing. The red dragon appeared almost immediately, so he must have been lingering in the area, anticipating the Dragonborn's call. Speech while they flew was difficult, and Marcus and Tamsyn were silent most of the way back to Whiterun, each involved with their own thoughts. Tamsyn was huddled up against his back, her arms securely snugged around his waist.

 _I have a question,_ Marcus thought privately.

 _Only one?_ came the amused Voice.

 _Alright, one of many,_ Marcus grinned, but sobered quickly. _It's about Vyrthur. He said you turned your back on him when he became a vampire._

There was a sound like a long, sad sigh in his mind.

 _I never turned my back on Vyrthur,_ Akatosh said. _Do you remember what happened to you when you became a werewolf? How Hircine took over your mind and laid claim to your soul?_

Marcus shuddered. He remembered all too well.

 _It was the same for Vyrthur,_ Akatosh continued. _As soon as he was turned, Molag Bal took possession of him. I was unable to do anything about it._

 _But aren't you the Chief of the Nine?_ Marcus wondered, confused. _I thought being your Priest gave Vyrthur some kind of protection._

 _It might have,_ Akatosh agreed, _if Vyrthur had remained true to the Tenets of the Faith. But he had already slipped away from them. By the time he became infected, he already cared more for the glory of being Arch-Curate than he did caring for the souls of those who followed him. It was…regrettable…but there was nothing I could do for him, once he became Molag Bal's._

 _I understand,_ Marcus thought. _And for what it's worth, I'm sorry._

 _Your compassion is one of your greatest strengths, Dragonborn,_ the Dragon God of Time praised him. _Go home, enjoy your family, make your preparations against the Dominion. You have struck a greater blow against them than you realize, but you are not ready to face them yet. You need to get the Dragons on your side._

 _How can I, when they won't answer my summons?_ Marcus demanded.

Akatosh 's voice was stern. _Are you the Dragonborn, or aren't you? Use the souls you have stockpiled to empower your Shouts when you call their names. Esbern can help you locate them. They will come. They must. And soon you will have an opportunity to learn a Shout that will force them to obey you – at least, those who do not do so willingly. You must become stronger, Marcus. Greater challenges are yet ahead of you._

Marcus gave an inward sigh. _I had a feeling I wasn't done yet._

Akatosh chuckled. _Someday you will be. But not any time soon. For now, concentrate on the dragons, and work on your magic. You will need both to go up against the Dominion._

Marcus nodded to himself as the Presence faded. One crisis had been averted. Harkon, and the vampire threat he represented, were gone, destroyed. Oh yes, vampires would still be around, but not of the caliber to become a world-wide menace. He could rest easy on that.

* * *

They returned to Whiterun and Breezehome early in the morning, before Sofie, Lucia and Alesan were up. Serana met them at the door. Marcus noticed at once there was something…different about her. It took him a moment, but Tamsyn picked up on it first.

"Serana!" she gasped. "You're not a vampire anymore!"

The Nord girl nodded shyly and scuffed her foot. "It seemed the right thing to do," she said. "I went to see Falion while you were gone." She raised her face, and Marcus could see her eyes no longer glowed that unholy orange color. They were mossy green, deeper than Tamsyn's.

"I'm glad you made the choice for yourself," Marcus said, smiling. "You know you would be welcome here even if you hadn't."

"I know," Serana nodded. "But I want to be a part of what you're doing. I want to help fight the Thalmor and the Dominion. And while I might have been more powerful as a vampire, it would have made things more…difficult…with the other people I might have to work with. Besides," she shrugged, "as you said, Marcus, now _I_ can decide which direction my life is going to take."

Tamsyn closed the distance and hugged the Nord girl warmly. "You are a very welcome addition to our efforts, Serana, even as a human. I don't think there are very many people who know as much about Conjuration as you do, unless it's someone from Madanach's crew."

"I'll go wherever you need me," Serana promised. "But I think I'd like to return to Fort Dawnguard – for a little while, anyway. Now that I'm no longer a vampire, I think they'll accept me more readily."

"Why there?" Marcus asked, curious.

"No particular reason," Serana hedged, not meeting his eyes.

 _She's attracted to someone there,_ Marcus thought, but couldn't imagine who it might be. Certainly not Isran. The man had been rude and insulting for most of the time they had spent together. Giving a mental shrug, Marcus smiled.

"If that's what you'd like, I can have Odahviing take us there."

"No," Serana said, surprising him. "I have Arvak, after all. I'll take the long way."

"When will you be leaving?" Tamsyn asked.

"Actually," the dark-haired girl replied, embarrassed, "I was only waiting for you two to return, so I could say goodbye. I know you have a training camp set up in Mzulft. I can go there after Fort Dawnguard, if you'd like, and join the efforts there."

"We're going to miss you, Serana," Tamsyn said sadly. "But we both understand this is something you need to do for yourself."

"Good luck," Marcus added. "When you get to Mzulft, ask to speak with Galmar and give him the passcode, 'liberty.' He'll know you're on our side."

"'Liberty,'" Serana repeated. "I'll remember it." She hugged them both, and there were more than a few tears shed on her departure.

For a long while after the Nord girl left, there was silence in Breezehome. Neither Marcus nor Tamsyn felt inclined to fill the emptiness with spoken words. Then Sofie came downstairs to begin her day, and Alesan followed after her several minutes later. Lucia still wouldn't be up for a couple of hours yet. The little girl enjoyed sleeping in.

"Is it all over, now, Papa?" Sofie asked. "I mean, with the vampires? We don't need to worry about them anymore, do we?"

"We should always be on our guard against the threat of vampires," Marcus said honestly. "But I think we can safely say we won't be troubled with the Volkihar vampires anymore."

"What will you do now, Dad?" Alesan asked.

"Wait for the next crisis," Marcus half-joked. It seemed he had no more than solved one problem before another cropped up to take its place. "This is it for a while, though, isn't it?" he asked his wife.

Tamsyn shrugged. "I can't see that far ahead, Marcus," she admitted. "I know we're in a lull, but I can't tell you when the next storm will come. Let's just hope we're prepared to weather it when it does."

"We've come through everything else so far," he replied with more confidence than he felt. "I've taken out World-Eaters and Vampire Lords. What could be worse than that?"

Tamsyn said nothing, but shot him that curious look he had come to know so well. She knew more than she was prepared to say in front of the children. So he waited until Sofie left for Arcadia's, and Alesan headed up the hill to Jorrvaskr. Lydia had brewed another pot of coffee for them, and they took it upstairs and outside to the balcony Marcus had had built onto the front of Breezehome. He sat down opposite Tamsyn and said, "So, what are you not telling me?"

Tamsyn blew out a sigh. "Remember those cultists who attacked you, in Ivarstead, and again on your way to Ysgramor's Tomb?" she asked. He nodded. "You'll have to deal with them."

"That means going to Solstheim to follow up clues," Marcus said thoughtfully. "Would you be able to come with me this time?"

"I want to, Marcus," she said, giving a rueful laugh. "I feel like the whole game is being played, but it's passing me by. I'm part of it, but not really participating, like a side character who has nothing to do unless she's interacting with the Dragonborn." She blew out a breath of exasperation. "But there's still so much to do here, and we can't both be gone at the same time."

"We just finished one crisis," he grumbled.

"This isn't a crisis…yet," Tamsyn said. "I have it on good authority that we still have some time before it has to be dealt with."

"I don't want to leave you alone with the baby on the way," he insisted, leaning over to put a protective hand on her still-flat stomach.

"You won't have to," she replied, covering his hand with hers. "We'll have that much time, at least. But I strongly suggest we look into some property in the Pale and get building. We're bursting at the seams here."

Unwillingly, Marcus grinned. "You don't look like you're bursting to me," he teased.

"Beast," she scowled, batting his hand away.

"Not anymore," he countered, still smiling. "I got cured, remember? But you are my Beauty." He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her thoroughly. When he released her she gasped in mock outrage.

"Marcus! What will the neighbors think?"

"They'll think the Dragonborn loves his wife very much," Marcus replied, refusing to be put off. "And they'd be right. And they'll be very jealous of us." He kissed her against in spite of her protests.

In the back of his mind he knew she was right. He would have to go to Solstheim and find out who this Miraak person was, and why he was sending a bunch of fanatics after him to kill him. But for now, the sun was coming up; it promised to be a beautiful day, and he had his family around him. There was peace in Skyrim for the first time in a long time. Yes, there would be loose ends to tie up, but for the moment, all was well.

He would enjoy it while he could.

* * *

 _[Author's Note: An epilogue to tie things up is next. It's ready, so I will be posting it simultaneous with this.]_


	18. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

 _ **(Seven months later)**_

 _(AUTHOR'S NOTE: My husband pointed out a few things I forgot to mention, regarding Barbas' status in the Dragonborn household, and what happened to Hircine's Ring. I have updated this Epilogue to include it here.)_

* * *

"You're doing fine, my love," Marcus soothed as he wrung out the hand cloth in cool water and placed it on Tamsyn's brow.

"I don't…feel like it," she gasped. "Oh!" She groaned as another contraction hit her. "I forgot…how much…I hate this part!"

Marcus chuckled. "Good thing, too. The human race would have died out ages ago if women remembered the pain of childbirth like it was yesterday."

" _You_ can laugh," Tamsyn gritted, "…ungh! But _I'm_ the one…going through it!"

He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. Glancing at Bothela at the foot of the bed, he smiled reassuringly. "It will all be over soon, dearest," he promised. "And then we'll get to hold our baby."

He still didn't know if he would have a son or daughter, but he had insisted Tamsyn not tell him if she knew. He wanted it to be a surprise. All things considered, he felt lucky enough to be home – or at least, at home in Markarth – when Tamsyn had gone into labor. At first Bothela had been surprised when she arrived to find out that Marcus intended to remain in the room during birth.

"Hmph!" she snorted. "We'll see about that. Most men clear out with the first screams."

That had been ten hours ago, and in that time Marcus made himself useful, assisting Tamsyn while she walked the floor, until the contractions came so quickly she had to take to her bed. Now, all they could do was wait. At one point Bothela suggested he wait in the other room with Cicero and Argis, but Marcus declined. He had remained, and while the old Reachwoman's eyebrows rose, Marcus could sense approval from her.

"I guess the Dragonborn's made of sterner stuff," was all she said.

Casting his mind back while Tamsyn rested fitfully, Marcus reflected on all that had happened in the last several months.

* * *

Despite a general feeling of uneasiness in dealing with necromancy, Esmerelda went ahead with her ritual to speak with the two dead assassins. Tamsyn left Markarth before the interrogation, stating it would look as though the Arch-Mage of Winterhold condoned the act if she remained. Marcus stayed as a witness to the events, few people in Skyrim questioning the honor and integrity of the Dragonborn at this point.

But the interrogation proved fruitless. The departed souls, even in death, and under coercion, could tell them nothing about the person who planned and plotted the assassination of Interim Jarl Nepos. They could only say they had been exploring a ruin when they felt someone or something take control of their minds. After that, they remembered nothing. When asked if Jarl Ulfric had been involved – Marcus' worst fear – the souls informed them they had been deserters, and Ulfric had known nothing of the plot; it had happened after they deserted. Marcus had breathed a sigh of relief, but it presented another worry. Somewhere out there was a powerful necromancer with Thalmor leanings.

Filing it away with all the other things he had to worry about, Marcus decided to concentrate on things he could control. He made regular visits to the Vale to bring supplies, speak with Ondolemar and train with Gelebor. The Knight-Paladin had had many long centuries of perfecting his fighting style, and Marcus felt his respect and awe of the mer increase with each visit. In a moment of gratitude, he confided to Gelebor about his conversations with Akatosh, whom the Snow Elf knew as Auri-El.

"I'm not surprised," Gelebor told him with an indulgent smile. "Auri-El speaks to each of us in His own way. The fact that you have been chosen by him to address the wrongs of the world is a heavy burden, so it does not surprise me that he would choose to remain with you, to guide you. You are blessed in this, Marcus." And the Dragonborn felt unaccountably humbled by the benediction.

As it turned out, both Gelebor and Sylfaen could still read the language of their kin. Marcus was delighted to add copies of the translated books he'd found to his private collection, restored to pre-Thalmor-invasion condition with help from Urag and plenty of coin.

Ondolemar settled into life in the Vale as well, in awe at first of Gelebor and Sylfaen, and fearful of the Falmer. But after several weeks with no incidents, he admitted to Marcus that he was beginning to see individual personalities emerging from the twisted beings that shared the Vale with them. His documents proved to be invaluable in helping the Alliance – as Tullius, Ulfric and Balgruuf had taken to calling it – target hidden Thalmor outposts. Brynjolf and his people infiltrated several to recover even more intelligence, with only minor casualties. Usually those were Thalmor toadies and Dominion guards, but there were the rare occasions when Bryn would lose a raw recruit who hadn't paid attention.

The documents also revealed several plots the Dominion had in motion, and Marcus was kept busy traveling around Tamriel to thwart their efforts. The results were mostly positive. Leaders in High Rock, Hammerfell and Black Marsh expressed appreciation to the Dragonborn for exposing Thalmor operatives in their midst. Of course, it meant he was painting a broader target on his back, and there were at least two more attempts on his life, one of which might have succeeded had Cicero not been with him.

Marcus gave Aela the Ring of Hircine, much to her surprise and delight. He had originally intended to chuck it down the Red Mountain, as he had threatened to do to Mephala's Blade, but Tamsyn warned him that Daedric artifacts never really get destroyed, and that Hircine himself might recall it back to the Hunting Grounds to wait for another unfortunate soul to give it to. With that knowledge, Marcus decided he'd rather have someone hold on to it so he would at least know where it was.

Once the scholars at the College had deciphered the inner workings of the portal that Cicero and Argis had brought back from Cyrodiil, they were able to duplicate its enchantments and create two more similar to it. The original, of course, had had to be destroyed in order to figure out how it worked.

Sergius Turrianus took charge of the process, and a team of apprentice- and adept-level mages worked with him, but it still had taken most of the last several months to perfect the portals. Rabbits sent through in the beginning sometimes came out…deformed on the other side. When the problems had finally been sorted out, Tamsyn volunteered to test it first, but her entire staff voted her down.

"You're far too important to us to risk, Arch-Mage," Tolfdir said firmly. "I'm an old man, and I've lived a long and fruitful life. I'll do it."

"But you're my Master Wizard!" Tamsyn protested.

"And if this doesn't work, then Faralda will succeed me," the old Nord insisted. "But we are not putting you or your child at risk, my dear, and that is final!" With those words, he stepped on the portal, and everyone held their breath until he reappeared on the other across the room.

"By Ysmir!" he exclaimed happily. "I think it worked!" Then he fainted from the stress.

As Tamsyn had stated earlier, one portal was taken to Blackreach, and the other kept at Winterhold, remaining hidden deep within the bowels of the College in the Midden, where they had been created. Sergius and his team immediately began working on a second pair of portals and soon had them ready for Mzulft and Bthardamz. It was Brylyna who figured out a way to add symbols around the base. Touching the symbol before stepping onto the platform enabled them to change the destination.

The pair that had been claimed by the Grey Fox, down in Cyrodiil, had been ensconced in his quarters under the Imperial City, with the second one being delivered to the Thieves' Guild in Riften. Brynjolf was suspicious at first, but quickly saw the advantages such a device would bring to his Guild. Items that had been…appropriated in Skyrim could now be 'liquidated' in Cyrodiil, and vice versa. But the Grey Fox kept his word to keep Tamsyn informed of any suspicious activities by the Dominion within Cyrodiil, and Brynjolf was kept busy between his trips to Winterhold, Sky Haven Temple, Blackreach and Whiterun.

"I think I need two more of me," he complained at one point.

"Don't say that too loud," Delvin Mallory warned. "I'll bet that Arch-Mage could figure out a way to do it!"

There was a subtle shift in operations within the Guild. They were becoming less and less about thieving and more about espionage. It paid better, and only the die-hard pickpockets like Viper grumbled about the 'good old days.' He didn't seem to mind his share of the coin, however, when he successfully liberated sealed messages from Dominion couriers.

Tamsyn kept her promise to the Gray Fox to retrieve Mehrunes' Razor for him, as a reward for saving her from the Thalmor. In point of fact, however, as her pregnancy kept her closer and closer to home and Winterhold, she introduced the leader of the Cyrodiil Thieves' Guild to her husband, the Dragonborn, and sent them off together.

At Karthspire, Delphine had gained several dozen recruits to train up as Blades, and Sky Haven Temple was nearly at full strength. There had been a shift in the dynamics of that Order, as well. No longer focusing on killing dragons – unless the dragons refused to join them – they began to concentrate on taking out Thalmor patrols, which still trooped across Skyrim as if they owned it.

"I'm going to need another place to put people," she complained to Marcus at one point. "We're starting to get over-crowded."

"I'll look into finding another place for you," he promised. After much diligent searching, and some major housecleaning, Skuldafn Temple was chosen. With Alduin gone, the portal to Sovngarde was closed forever. Reaching the Temple itself was nearly impossible unless one had wings, but through the sheer force of his will, Marcus was able to convince some of the lesser, unnamed dragons to carry Blades on their backs. It was the start of his Air Force, and he was pleased to finally begin this important work, which he knew would be a key to eliminating the Dominion. Benor had been named as the new Grand Master of Skuldafn, and the promotion had pleased and surprised the young Nord.

"I don't know if I'm ready for this honor," he admitted. "I'm still kind of new to being a Blade myself."

"But you've committed all the Tenets to memory," Delphine told him. "Faster than anyone I've ever seen. And Amalie will be there to help you as your Archivist. She's also a formidable witchblade, and will be able to train your recruits in magic."

This was something everyone had foreseen; Benor and Amalie were married in a Reachfolk ceremony two months following the death of Lord Harkon. Though sad to be parted from her people, Amalie nonetheless stated she felt her place was by Benor's side, and if he was leaving Karthspire to head up a new Blades' Temple, she would be going with him. The fact that she had immersed herself in Blades' lore didn't hurt, and that one of the lesser dragons kept coming around to be near her was a bonus. She had named it Mistwing, for its grey-white color, which made the dragon inordinately happy.

Marcus finally negotiated the purchase of the land in the Pale that Jarl Brina Merelis had available, and indeed, Tamsyn had not been wrong. The sweeping vistas to the south and east were breathtaking, and he could still see Whiterun and the Throat of the World in the distance. Jarl Brina had also given him a Housecarl, a steadfast, sturdy Nord by the name of Gregor. His cheerful manner and enthusiasm were a refreshing change from some of the dour people Marcus had had to deal with.

But building a house required someone to remain on site to supervise things. Not knowing Gregor all that well, Marcus appointed Lydia as his Steward, and when she and Gregor met for the first time, it was quite literally 'love at first sight.' The two couldn't seem to keep their eyes – or their hands – off each other. Within two weeks, Gregor produced an Amulet of Mara and Lydia accepted. They were married a week later in Dawnstar by the priest of Mara, Erandur, who was rebuilding Nightcaller Temple into a proper place of worship for the Goddess of Love.

This left Sofie, Lucia and Alesan alone at Breezehome, requiring either Tamsyn or Marcus to remain there until Heljarchen could be finished.

"Papa," Sofie told him one night, "Miss Arcadia has offered me a place at the Cauldron, if it will help."

"I can stay at Jorrvaskr," Alesan added. "I'm practically there all the time anyway."

"That doesn't help Lucia, though," Marcus frowned.

"I could go to the Bards' College in Solitude," Lucia stated. "Please, Papa! I'm almost twelve!"

"You just turned eleven, Lu," Alesan scowled. "It'll be months before you're twelve!"

"Shut up, Als!"

"That's enough, you two!" Marcus said firmly. "Lucia, you're still too young to be away from home like that. Sofie, I'll take Miss Arcadia's offer under consideration. I don't want you to interrupt your apprenticeship, if we can avoid it. Alesan, you've been neglecting your chores again, so I'm not sure how well you'd do at Jorrvaskr. Being a Companion means being committed. You haven't shown commitment yet."

"Sorry, Dad," Alesan mumbled, his dusky face darkening. "I'll get them done right now."

In the end, Sofie moved in with her master, Arcadia, and Alesan – at Vilkas' insistence, surprisingly – moved into the whelps' quarters in Jorrvaskr. It left a very lonely, sullen Lucia at home alone – except for Barbas' company – but Marcus promised her he would speak with Viarmo when Lucia turned twelve, to see if she would be accepted. He also explored the possibilities of purchasing a home in Solitude so that either he or Tamsyn would be close by if needed. He got a bit of sticker shock when Jarl Elisif informed him of the price of Proudspire Manor, but Tamsyn gushed over the place, and even he was impressed.

"We're building one house and buying another, is that it?" Tamsyn giggled.

Marcus gave a rueful laugh. "I'm just becoming Thane all over the damned place."

Becoming Thane of Solitude – replacing the traitor Erikur, who was involved in several extortion schemes and confidence scams against the Jarl – wasn't so bad, he realized, when it gave him another Housecarl in Jordis the Sword-Maiden. She was as blonde as Lydia was brunette, soft-spoken and a bit younger than his Steward, but Jordis was a fierce fighter and loyal to her Thane. When Tamsyn suggested they bring Lucia up to Solitude to live at Proudspire, where she could at least be close to the Bards College, Jordis immediately volunteered to watch after the child in their absence.

"I'll keep her safe, my Thane," she promised. Lucia was delighted, and even more so when Jordis began teaching her songs she had learned in her travels with the Legion before coming into the service of Jarl Elisif.

Jordis never batted an eye when a talking Daedric dog followed the Dragonborn's daughter around, and in fact seemed to get along quite well with Barbas.

" _Sheesh!"_ Barbas complained at one point, _"all dat time in da Legion has woiked on dat goil. She knows more dirty jokes dan I do!"_

She never told them in Lucia's hearing…or Marcus'.

Barbas seemed to enjoy living in Solitude, and it wasn't very long before most people knew his nature. Nervous at first, then curious, he was soon accepted as just another curiosity of having the Dragonborn take up residence in their city.

"How long do you think you'll stick around?" Marcus asked Barbas once, during a quiet evening by the fire in Proudspire. "I mean, at some point, you'll have to return to Clavicus Vile, won't you?"

" _Yeah, sure, someday,"_ the Daedric mutt admitted. _"But it'll do him some good to sit 'n stew in that pit of a cave for a while. It might take a hundred years or so for him to admit he was wrong and straighten up, and do the job he's s'posed t' do."_

"A hundred years?" Marcus blinked. "I'll be dead by then!"

" _Don't be too sure o' dat, Dragonborn,"_ Barbas replied. _"Dragons live a long time, and you've got dragon blood in you. Besides, Lucia might still be around. I'm not ashamed to admit I'm really fond of da goil. I t'ink I'll stick around at least until she passes. Eh…too bad I won't get t' see her in da afterlife."_ He whined a little and dropped his head to his paws.

There wasn't much Marcus could say to that, except, "Thanks, Barbas," and ruffled the dog's fur. Barbas' tail thumped happily on the stone floor.

Marcus also could not help but notice that there were more people inhabiting the Dawnstar Sanctuary. There was a child there, Babette, who turned out to actually be a vampire. Marcus realized with horror that she was the same child vampire who had attacked them at Lucia's farm, and who had murdered his daughter's aunt and uncle. At first hostile towards him - and the feeling was mutual - Cicero smoothed things over by explaining where matters stood regarding the Dragonborn and him. Not entirely satisfied, Babette nevertheless agreed – after a stern lecture from Lucien LaChance – that she would not offer harm. For his part, Marcus knew there was only just so far he could push his Dark Brother. Cicero had accepted Babette as one of the Brotherhood. He had to let it pass, and grudgingly did so. The latest recruit, however, had Marcus writhing in despair, even while Cicero pranced about.

"He has the words!" the little Imperial cried. "He has the words! Mother has spoken to him! Ohhhh…Cicero has a Listener now!"

The boy had come in with Babette, and after Cicero had finally settled down, Marcus took him aside and spoke to him.

"Aventus Aretino," he said sternly. "I thought you were going back to Honorhall?"

The boy didn't look the least bit ashamed. Bemused and surprised at the turn of events, yes, but not ashamed. "I _did_ go back," he scowled. "I stayed there for the last two years. Did you know that? Did you ever stop in to check and see how I was doing?"

Marcus opened his mouth to speak. To be fair, he'd been busy, but not so busy he couldn't have managed a visit.

"I watched Samuel and Runa and Francois and even Hroar get adopted. No one even looked at me! And when Constance tried to get people to adopt me, they'd all make the sign of Mara and say, 'Not that one! We've heard about _him!'_ Do you know what that's like?"

Stricken, Marcus bowed his head. "I'm sorry, Aventus. I didn't realize your reputation would follow you as far as Riften."

"Well it did," the boy simmered. "Several new kids came in, and they got adopted, too. But I stayed because no one wanted a kid who tried to summon the Dark Brotherhood."

"Where were you going when you left?" Marcus asked.

"Back home to Windhelm," Aventus shrugged. "The house is mine, after all. The Jarl said it would be. I figured I'd just go home first and try to think what I could do to live."

"What happened to bring you here?"

"I met Babette on the road," the boy replied. "At first I thought she was a kid like me, but when we got attacked by wolves she showed me who she really was. She told me all about the Dark Brotherhood, too – the _real_ Dark Brotherhood." Here he threw a glare at Marcus, as if upset by the older man's deception. "She said she was heading to a new Sanctuary since the Dragonborn – that's _you_ – destroyed the old one and killed all her family there. She said I could come with her, and since I didn't have anything better to do, I came."

"Aventus," Marcus began, "I may have been wrong about destroying the other Sanctuary. Cicero knows about that, and we've made peace."

"I know," Aventus nodded. "I've heard all about it from him. He's an odd duck, but he's the Keeper, and that means he deserves respect, so…" The boy's voice trailed off. "I just never expected a corpse to talk to me! This just keeps getting better and better!" His eyes were shining, and Marcus knew the boy was well and truly lost. Or perhaps he'd been found. He had a place and the start of a family, and perhaps in time he might also agree to help in Marcus' other endeavors. For now, Marcus knew he could not interfere in the boy's training.

For his part, Cicero was jubilant. "Oh, dear brother!" he sighed. "Cicero is _so happy_ right now! We have a Listener now, and soon the jobs will come in. And we will find new recruits, as well. Everything is going _so well!_ Pinch me, Brother! Cicero thinks he's dreaming!"

Marcus burst out laughing. "You're too dangerous a man to pinch, Cicero! I know better than that!"

* * *

Tamsyn stirred and groaned. "Here we go again," she muttered.

Bothela bustled in and helped Tamsyn to a semi-inclined position. "It should be soon, now," she advised, after checking on Tamsyn's progress. "You'll have a son or daughter before the hour is out."

Forty minutes later, after much sweating and groaning – she never cried out – Tamsyn gave birth to a tiny, pink ball of arms and legs with a voice as loud as her father's. Bothela cleaned the baby and wrapped her carefully in a soft blanket before placing her in her father's arms.

"Congratulations, you two," Bothela smiled as she cleaned up the after-birth. "You have a daughter. Have you thought of a name yet?"

Tamsyn smiled weakly. "I was going to leave that choice to you, my love," she told Marcus.

He blinked past the blurriness in his eyes, gazing down at the swaddled bundle in his arms. "I thought we'd name her after her grandfather," he said softly, as his daughter peered out blearily at the world with deep blue eyes. "Her name is Julia."

* * *

END

 _[Author's Note: I hope you've enjoyed this tale, twisted a bit from canon. That's what writers do, though. We take a familiar story and turn it into something you've never heard before. There are several people I'd like to thank, starting with all of you, who have been with me from the beginning. Little did I realize a year and a half ago when I started a short story about a guy from our world ending up in Skyrim that I would have come this far. Special thanks go to Pietersielie, 115SecretsToUnveil and A Week Of Sundays for their regular reviews that kept me on the right path._

 _To answer a few questions some of you have had: yes, Golmonah and Paarthurnax will probably meet; no, there probably won't be any baby dragons. She's VERY old, you see. Yes, the Falmer will probably become less of an immediate threat. As Gelebor points out in the game, they are already showing signs of increasing intelligence. It won't happen in Marcus and Tamsyn's life-time, or even in their children's, but it will probably happen that they will be less "monstrous-looking" than they are now; but without Divine Intervention they will never again look like Gelebor and Sylfaen. As for those two…well, you'll have to wait and see._

 _To answer Atlas, yes, I will be addressing the Second Great War, and it will probably be a fourth book, if all goes well. The next book will deal with the Dragonborn DLC. Some of you even suggested titles; I have decided to go with "Into the Ashes" (thank you to Ivanbreyten for that)._

 _Finally, to Guest James, you have an interesting idea, and I'll have to think about it and do some research before I make a decision on that. It certainly would be in keeping with Marcus' character to do something like that, but he would also consider the argument against such an action; in other words, what would be the downside of doing it, and would the world be better off for it?_

 _Once again, a big thank you to everyone reading and reviewing. It is greatly appreciated! Keep watching for "Into the Ashes." I will be working on that soon.]_


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